Time After Time
by anon004
Summary: Wilson survives his cancer and he and House decide it's time to start their lives together. AU just before the last two minutes of Post Mortem
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I wasn't thrilled with the ending to Post Mortem, but I figured that they would do something to make it meaningful in Holding On. I was arriving at acceptance (just like House), when David Shore and Company came up with the magical mystery ticket wad - it retains fingerprints even though saturated with water and raw sewage, while traveling through miles of plumbing, including _up_ pipes in direct defiance of gravity - thus sending House back to prison on the most implausible, ridiculous pretext ever created just to deny him even one brief moment of happiness. I couldn't take it anymore. I've been meaning to write a House-Wilson story for a while, but this was the impetus. As of this writing, the finale has not been broadcast, but I'm not optimistic. So, I'm going to create my own AU where Wilson lives and he and House get on with their lives together. Take that, David Shore!

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Disclaimer: Don't own these characters, otherwise I'd grant them something other than unremitting abject misery.

"House!" Wilson barked. "House!"

Wilson had just finished talking to House about why House hadn't gone after Chase. House had resumed watching Wilson's scans.

Wilson couldn't see anything, of course, and he had been watching House for clues. Suddenly, House's face had taken on a intensely distressed look. Just as Wilson was about to ask what House had seen, House hit the switch that sent the MRI bed to its original position, grabbed his cane and bolted from the room.

Wilson got up. He wanted to go after House, but it would have to wait until he saw the scans. He sat down at the console, anticipating the worst, given the look on House's face and the fact that House had run (well, moved as quickly as he could) from the room.

Wilson looked carefully at each image, trying to pretend he was a disinterested observer – a doctor, with professional detachment, looking at one of his patient's scans. It worked for a while. The scans revealed the chemo had worked – the tumor was reduced in size sufficiently to be operable. The moment the realization sunk in, Wilson could not maintain even the appearance of his professional demeanor any longer. His mind shut down and he became enveloped in a thick fog.

He was pulled out of the miasma by Foreman's voice calling his name.

"What are the results?" Foreman demanded. "And where the hell is House?"

It took a while for Wilson to show Foreman the scans, and have Foreman awkwardly hug him. The lecture Foreman gave him to "never to do anything like that crazy ass chemo again" must have only been a few minutes, but it seemed much longer. Wilson went back to the changing rooms to get dressed and put his used gown in the receptacle for the hospital laundry. He also stopped by the surgical department to schedule the surgery to remove what was left of the tumor.

It took additional time to endure the hugs and well-wishes of pretty much everyone he ran into. Wilson was fairly certain Foreman hadn't said anything, and he was positive House wouldn't have. (House wasn't the type to confide in anyone, even if he had someone besides Wilson to confide in.) Someone had said something. Possibly one of the MRI techs? Well, so much for HIPPA.

By the time he got to the fourth floor, it was at least an hour and a half after the scan, and it was past time to go home for the day. Wilson was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to get his keys and his briefcase and head out. Had he walked by House's empty office, he might have, but as he got off the elevator, he noticed the blinds were lowered and the office was dark.

The fact that the lights were out would usually indicate that House had left, but why the lowered blinds? As callous as House could be, Wilson didn't think House was in his office amusing himself by watching porn. Especially since he could easily do that at home, so there would no reason to stick around. (When House watched porn at the hospital, it was usually during the day to kill time waiting for test results or to avoid clinic duty.)

Wilson was pretty sure House was sitting in there, in the dark, brooding, probably sipping some kind of hard liquor. The strange thing was that Wilson didn't know why. Had the news been bad, it would have been perfectly understandable. But why sit and ruminate over good news?

As tired as he was, Wilson had been around House too long not to want to solve the mystery. And, if he admitted it, he was also a little hurt that House had left so abruptly. Again, had it been bad news, House might have booked to avoid any messy emotions on Wilson's part. Since it was good news, and House knew that, it didn't make a lot of sense that he didn't stick around.

Both the conference room door and the office door were locked. Was that to keep everyone out, or just those who didn't have a key, like House's team?

Since Wilson could access House's office through the balcony, he had never bothered with a key, until that time House had induced a coma using insulin in an effort to get rid of his hallucinations.

After that, Wilson decided he might need to get to House quicker than he could by going into his own office, rushing across the length of his balcony, climbing over the separating wall (Wilson imagined himself ten years older and fifteen pounds heavier) and then finally getting to House's office.

Since Rachel was an infant at the time and Cuddy had been both preoccupied with her and resentful of House for "making her return to work too soon," she had been happy to delegate dealing with House to Wilson. She'd agreed almost too eagerly to give Wilson a key to House's office.

Wilson reached into his pocket and had no trouble finding his keys. They had grown to be an enormous wad of plastic and metal, and not just because of his car key and fob. As a head of one of the largest departments in the hospital, he needed keys and pass cards to all kinds of places – labs, supply closets, the oncology pharmacy, and his staffs' offices.

Almost every time House saw Wilson's key ring, he managed to get in at least one snide comment about the size of it mirroring Wilson's "inflated sense of self-importance." So, it seemed only fair that Wilson could turn that around and use it to intrude on House for a change.

Wilson inserted his key into the lock as quietly as he could. Whether House was sleeping or brooding, he wouldn't take kindly to the interruption, and Wilson wanted to minimize the intrusion as much as possible.

Even as he tried to slip into the office quietly, a part of him wanted to be angry and burst through the door. God knows House had done that to him enough over the years. But Wilson knew that if he ever wanted to figure out why House had left him in the MRI machine that afternoon, he'd have to finesse the situation at least a little since House didn't take kindly to fulfilling the demands of others.

Wilson opened the door and pushed through as carefully and as quietly as he could. But House, having an ear better than any other person Wilson had ever known, not to mention quite a few dogs and cats, heard him, of course.

Wilson entered and immediately locked the door again. House didn't want any visitors, and Wilson didn't want any interruptions. And Wilson figured that if House wanted him out, Wilson could always use the balcony door, even if he wasn't thrilled at the idea of hoisting his weakened body over the concrete partition.

He turned from the door to face the room and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gathering darkness. Wilson began to make out House's form. He was sitting back in his chair with his feet on the ottoman, and, as Wilson had already guessed, holding a highball glass with some kind of liquid in it. Although it was impossible to guess in the low lighting, Wilson thought it was most likely scotch or bourbon.

"What?" House asked. His voice was sharp, but the thickness was noticeable as well, at least to Wilson.

"Are you okay?" Wilson ventured.

"Asks the cancer patient," House snarked back, although his voice didn't carry as much sting as Wilson knew that it could.

Wilson also knew that the comment was intended as a warning. Too bad. Wilson was staring down cancer and it seemed like he would win. What could House possibly do to rival that?

As soon as Wilson had the thought, he was sure there was something that House could cook up. But Wilson still wanted to know the reason behind House's quick exit. _Well, here goes nothing_, Wilson thought.

"House," Wilson began, "Why did you bolt out of the MRI room?"

"Cripple," House responded, rubbing his right thigh. "No bolting here."

"Well, pardon my terminology," Wilson added a slight note of sarcasm to his voice. "Let me re-phrase: why did you get the hell out of there so fast?"

"I saw what I needed to see," House replied.

Wilson was still hearing thickness, and he assumed that wasn't House's first glass of booze. Now he'd either had to give House a ride, or, if House refused, miss sleep because he'd be worried all night whether he'd wrapped his motorcycle around a tree. Great.

"And you couldn't stick around to tell me?" Wilson heard a slight whine in is voice, but he couldn't help it. It hurt that House wasn't there to share the news with him.

"You can read a scan as well as I can," House asserted. "No need for me to show you."

"It isn't about reading the goddamn scan and you know it, House!"

"No need to take the name of Our Lord in vain, Wilson."

"House, just . . . just cut the crap, okay?" Wilson insisted. "Just tell me why you left."

"The results were the same, whether I was there or not."

"House, I know that I have more uncertainty than you do regarding the existence of a deity and an afterlife, but I still know that you don't have magical powers to change test results. And I know that you know that wasn't why I wanted you there, anyway."

"Yeah," House admitted. "But it's still not important that I was there – "

"Seriously?" Wilson questioned. "You're the one who's always saying what a girl I am. How could you possibly think I wouldn't want to hear the news that I wasn't going to die from my best friend?"

"It might matter to you _now_, Wilson."

"What?" Wilson sputtered. "What the hell does _that_ mean?"

"You'll have your surgery and go through your chemo and have a spectacular remission, I have no doubt. And then you'll 'assess' your life and find that it doesn't work anymore."

"I still have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, you'll try for a while to be an oncologist again, but seeing patients on chemo will remind you of your own ordeal, and every time a patient dies, you'll be wracked with survivor guilt. I give it a year at most before you give up your specialty and start looking for another way to use your mad doctor skillz."

"That just isn't true, House! My own cancer will make me even more effective with patients. I'll be an even better doctor – "

"One thing I've always admired about you, Wilson, is your utterly blissful lack of self-awareness. How you can delude yourself into thinking you'll be anything but a mere human shell, held together by nothing more than your own obsessive need to bleed for humanity is beyond me. In any case, it will still happen.

Wilson closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know, House, even if I accept whatever you were saying just now as one hundred per cent true, it still had no bearing on why you weren't there."

House sighed as if he were trying to explain the latest research on molecular biology to a toddler. "When this epiphany takes place, you'll want to move into another specialty. And your overweening ambition will make you want to be a department head, no doubt. But it isn't likely there'll be an opening here. In fact, there isn't likely to be an opening anywhere on the Eastern seaboard. You'll find a job in California or Oregon – "

"No I won't!'

"Just give it up, will you, Cleopatra? You will change specialties. You'll get a job clear across the country and you'll leave me here like so much garbage at the side of the road."

"You could always get a job wherever I go," Wilson stumbled.

"A violent ex-con with a drug problem and a stint in a psychiatric ward? Gosh, they'll be lining up to hire me, won't they?"

"House -" Wilson continued his feeble protests.

House's exasperation was clearly evident now. "Let me put this in terms even you can understand, Wilson. You die and I lose you. Or, you live and I _still_ lose you. Now do you see what I mean that it didn't matter whether I was there or not?"

The room was silent. Wilson had been so busy dealing with his cancer, he hadn't really thought beyond that, even to the impact on himself, let alone the impact on the people around him. Even though Wilson didn't want to believe it, what House said made sense.

Wilson had been in practice for almost twenty years. And he, unlike most department heads, had kept close contact with patients. And he'd even managed not to become detached, which was great for his patients, but the toll on him was enormous. Wilson was forced to admit to himself that he was facing burnout even before the cancer happened.

Wilson wanted to pretend that he would just keep going after he went into remission. The lure of "getting back to normal" was great. But, he couldn't simply brush aside the impact the cancer would have on him.

Wilson could only conclude House's prediction was correct, if not in its timeline (it might take two years instead of one), then almost certainly in the ultimate outcome. And House was right that if Wilson made a career change that he would most likely not want to become just a doctor on staff. So, that would require an opening for a department head, and those didn't come up very often, and, when they did, you couldn't afford to be choosey about where you had to go. Damn, Wilson hated it when House was right.

But, what about House? He'd been doing diagnostics almost as long as Wilson had been working in his specialty. While House pretended he didn't get attached to his patients, it had happened on many occasions. And even though House didn't lose as many patients as Wilson did, having only one at a time meant he had more invested in them when he did.

And just the intensity of his practice had to be draining. Working crazy hours, and spending every waking moment thinking about his patient certainly didn't make for a relaxing situation. Throw in the toll of House's chronic pain and the drugs, booze and other, um, _behaviors_ he used to cope, and House had probably passed Wilson in burnout a while ago. A _long_ while ago.

It gave Wilson an idea.

"House," Wilson ventured tentatively. He wanted to broach the subject carefully, so as not to spook him away. "You're probably right." Nothing like leading off with agreement.

"Of course," House acknowledged, but there was wariness in his tone. Wilson had come around a little too easily, and it made House suspicious.

"I am probably going to want to change my job, and I'll probably get a change of scenery along with it, whether I want that or not."

House grunted in assent.

"What about you?" Wilson questioned carefully.

"What about me?" House responded. Wilson heard even more thickness in his voice. That was odd. Wilson had been observing House even as he was working out what House was saying, and House hadn't had more than a small sip of his drink. Maybe he'd had a couple of belts before Wilson got to his office, and it was starting to kick in now.

"Well, you can't tell me what you do has the same thrill as it used to. I mean, it's been an, um, _intense_ few years for you, too."

House snorted both in recognition of what Wilson was saying and of Wilson's sadly failed diplomacy in trying to say it. "Yeah, I've spent the last few years fucking my life up royally, Wilson. What's your point?"

"That maybe you need a change, too."

"I just told you no one else would hire me, Wilson."

"Maybe not as a practicing physician, but you most certainly could teach or do research, House."

"What the hell would I research?" House exclaimed more than asked.

Wilson's expectations raised a little. The fact that House didn't simply dismiss the whole idea out of hand was significant. "You have one of the finest minds in science, House. I'm sure you could get a university spot and some funding to pursue whatever puzzle interested you."

"I'd have to get a PhD."

"Again, your brilliant mind . . . " Wilson's voice trailed off. He didn't want to anticipate that House would actually consider this.

"Do you think it's a possibility we could wind up in the same place, then?" House asked in a small voice.

Something clicked for Wilson. House had said he'd lose him, and he'd sounded, maddeningly enough, reconciled to it. But House was good at misdirection. Could the reality be that House was simply scared and sad about Wilson leaving him?

"House, we'll work it out somehow," Wilson spoke barely above a whisper.

Without thinking he moved toward House's chair. He put his hand lightly on House's shoulder. House turned his face toward him. It was too dark to see House's expression.

Just as he was about to remove his hand, Wilson felt drops hitting it. It took a moment to register what was happening. House was crying.

So, maybe the thickness in House's voice wasn't from the booze - maybe he'd been crying for a while.

At first, Wilson had no idea how to react. His own eyes were filling up rapidly. Should he just drop the conversation and walk out? It would certainly be the easiest thing to do, especially since Wilson didn't trust himself to talk at the moment.

No. For once in his life, Wilson was not going to avoid his feelings; he was going to face this.

"House," Wilson croaked, "I'm not going anywhere without you."

"You left me before," House whispered.

"Yes," Wilson admitted. His breath hitched and tears began to slide down his cheeks. "But I'm not going to do that again. Not ever."

"Why?"

"Because I love you."

Wilson heard House suck in a breath, followed by the tiniest of cries. Wilson dropped to his knees in front of House's chair. He took House's face in his hands and felt the tears dripping between his fingers.

All those years of hesitating and denying his feelings melted at that moment, and he could no longer keep away. His mouth found House's and he latched on, almost like a baby searching and finding its mother's nipple for the first time. A little rough and achingly wonderful and very needy, and everything Wilson had ever wanted and never found his entire life until now.

And it sure as hell wasn't like House was a passive participant. His need was as great as Wilson's – probing, sucking, nipping. Their tongues found each other, and, even though they both knew in their rational brains it couldn't be true, their emotions told them that the world had stopped turning, and the universe was nothing more than the two of them.

They finally broke for air. Their foreheads rested together briefly until Wilson realized this wasn't the best thing for his knees. He pulled away to a grunt of dissatisfaction from House, only to be replaced by a satisfied sound as Wilson slipped into the chair next to him, putting his feet on the ottoman next to House's feet.

They spent several minutes passing soft kisses to each other, until something occurred to Wilson.

"House, do you have something to say to me?"

"Yeah." House replied. "Do I get to jump your bones later tonight?"

"Glad to see you're going to take the time to seduce me properly," Wilson snarked.

"What else did you expect me to say?"

"Well, it is customary when one person says they love another person that the other person reciprocates."

"You want me to declare my undying love for you, Wilson?"

"Not every day, or every week, or even every year, but it would be nice to hear it once, House."

"You already have, Wilson."

"What? When . . . Oh my God, you're talking about the time after you stuck the knife in the socket, aren't you? That was just you thanking me for giving you drugs, wasn't it? I mean, you were kidding, right?"

House was silent. It was more of an admission than if he'd shouted he loved Wilson from the hospital's roof.

"Dammit, House!" Wilson exclaimed. "Why the hell didn't you say something?"

"What should I have said, Wilson? When I told you I love you, it wasn't about scoring some good stuff, it was about my caring about you, needing you, wanting you more than I ever wanted anyone, that anyone else is a pale substitute compared to you, that you're the center of my existence . . . "

Wilson was grinning now, even as his eyes were shining with unshed tears. "House," he croaked.

"My God," House exclaimed, "Do you have any testicles at all?"

Wilson ignored the comment in favor of sneaking another soft, lingering kiss.

"Do you want to go back to your place or to mine?" House asked, trying to put at least some lecherousness in his voice.

"Well, your place reminds me of retching my guts out, crapping in my diapers and having every nerve ending in my body screaming in pain."

"Ah, the good old days."

"You have good memories of the loft, don't you?"

"Up to, but NOT including when you pushed me out to make room for Sam."

"I'm sorry about that, House."

"Water under the bridge, Wilson."

"Seriously?"

"No, I still blame you and hate you for it. Which why I was sucking your face off a mere two minutes ago."

"It's okay to admit you didn't like me when I did that."

"Didn't like you? What is this, third grade? You dumped me for that witch and stomped my heart to smithereens."

"Well, as long as we keep hyperbole out of the discussion."

There was pause.

"It hurt, Wilson. A lot."

"I know. Not to mention that it was stupid. There you were, living with me. All I had to do was - "

"Forget it, Wilson. Neither of us was ready then."

"We had to wait until after I got a fatal illness?"

"Among other things. Anyway, it was a nice change of pace, you have to admit."

Wilson snorted. "So?"

"So, we'll go to your place, provided that you agree to distract me."

"I'm a cancer patient, House."

"And I'm a cripple in chronic pain. Your point?"

"Let's just get the hell out of here."

Wilson scrambled out of the chair and gave House a hand up.

"I need to use the men's room," House announced.

"Yeah, me, too." Wilson acknowledged. Luckily, there were only offices on their floor, and everyone had gone home by now. Neither man wanted anyone else to see their tear-stained faces.

After a pee and a quick wash-up in the sink, they went back to their offices to collect their stuff. They went down to the parking garage, and to their respective vehicles. Wilson was still worried about House riding his motorcycle after drinking, but he didn't dare say anything or he'd never hear the end of House mocking his manhood. The only good thing was that Wilson would most likely be following the speed limit, which meant House would be way ahead of him, and Wilson would be able to see if anything happened and stop.

They made it back to the loft without incident. They took off their coats and shoes and made themselves comfortable.

"You want to order take-out?" Wilson asked after surveying the meager contents of his refrigerator. He'd hadn't exactly had a robust appetite lately, between the lingering effects of the chemo and the tension of waiting for the test results. Whatever had possessed him to try to eat that eighty-ounce steak was beyond him. No wonder most of it wound up partially digested on the floor of that dive.

"Sure," House agreed.

Wilson handed him the menu from his favorite Chinese place.

"Hmm," House commented as he read the front of the flier. "The Blue Lotus Blossom." I wonder if they're the least bit aware that their name sounds more like a Chinese brothel than a restaurant."

"Food's good, though."

"Really? How's their Kung Pao Beef?"

"The best I've ever had."

"Do you want any eggrolls? You're going to need to pack on some calories before chemo starts."

"Actually, the spring rolls are better."

"Yeah, no low-fat shredded cabbage as filler. Soup?"

"Hot and Sour, definitely."

"Are we talking about food, or the sex with me later?"

Wilson smiled. He knew he had to get through surgery and chemo, so, he didn't want to get ahead of himself. But, God, he could _so_ get used to this. Coming home to House or House coming home to him. Eating dinner together every night, or, at least, most nights. And sleeping with him – hot sex and warm cuddling, he hoped. And, if Wilson wasn't careful with his thoughts right now, he'd find himself jumping House's bones right then and there.

Wilson cleared his throat. "Let's just order, okay?"

House noted the effect of his comment. Not that he didn't usually notice the impact of his comments on most people, particularly Wilson. He smiled inwardly as he reached for Wilson's cell phone to call in the food. This was going to be a good night, with the likelihood of many more nights to come, given the prognosis for Wilson's cancer. What more could anyone ask for?

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A/N: Well, there you have the first chapter. A word of caution, my time is limited and my muse gets finicky, so please bear with me if I don't make regular updates. Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Don't own, etc.

Wilson and House almost missed the food delivery because they were making out, but they managed to hear the knocking just before the delivery guy left. If he wondered why two middle-aged men came to the door, lips obviously swollen from kissing and with partial erections, with no women in sight, he kept it to himself.

The Kung Pao beef had the right level of heat for House – in other words, it was so spicy it would rip the tongue off most mortals. Wilson begged off, claiming a desire to keep at least a few taste buds intact. He had ordered Chow Fun with House's encouragement – the abundant carbs would help Wilson bulk up in advance of chemo. They both had spring rolls – another high fat item House enjoined Wilson to consume.

And the Hot and Sour soup? Well, to house's astonishment, Wilson didn't go his usual route of getting two bowls, two spoons and a ladle and subsequently chiding House for refusing to use his bowl and eating the soup directly out of the container with his spoon. They merely passed the container back and forth and even used the _same_ spoon.

When House questioned the obvious breach of manners and hygiene, Wilson mumbled something about saving dishes and minimizing clean-up. House suspected there was more to it than that – perhaps Wilson realized that they had already exchanged quite a lot of bodily fluids, and were about to exchange even more. House could only hope.

He didn't know why he was dwelling on this - it was just some crockery and utensils (or lack thereof). House realized the situation made him feel funny – the good funny he'd once thought he felt about Cuddy. There was the same fluttery feeling in his abdomen that House could happily imagine going lower.

But, unlike with Cuddy, there was something else. It was the comfortable feeling of two people sharing something so mundane yet intimate, like a couple would. What? What the hell was that? The spiciness of the food must be what was making him warm inside. Yes, that was it.

Along with the food, they talked and laughed – really laughed – for the first time in they didn't know long. The Sword of Damocles – Wilson's cancer – that was hanging over their heads didn't seem to be affecting them. They were laughing so much, in fact, that the food kept slipping out of the chopsticks and dropping on their clothes. It meant extra effort in the laundry, but they simply didn't care.

It made House imagine a time when they wouldn't have that problem, because they'd be eating in the nude and licking the spills off each other's bodies. House had to put that thought on hold for a while if he didn't want it (Little Greg, that is) to signal how horny that made him feel.

They finished eating and cleaned up. Wilson put the leftovers in the refrigerator while House dealt with the dishes. Well, actually, he just dumped the remnants of the food in the sink and stacked the plates and flatware in the dishwasher. He smiled when he saw Wilson frowning slightly – Wilson no doubt thought that House should rinse the dishes first.

Well, if Wilson was going to be feeling crappy for the next few months, he'd have to get over some of the finer points of his fastidiousness. So, House was just performing a service by breaking him in, so to speak. _Not laziness, but actually altruism_, House thought with satisfaction.

They were settled on the couch, digesting their food. House had the TV on something that neither of them was particularly interested in. As House sipped his beer, he noticed that Wilson wasn't drinking.

"Hey," House said softly, "Why no booze, Wilson?"

"W-what?" Wilson stammered slightly.

At that point, House knew Wilson was trying to hide something and wasn't going to give up the real answer easily. The stammer was one of Wilson's tells – it meant he was uncomfortable about something and trying to stall. Which meant an opportunity to wheedle something no doubt embarrassing out of Wilson. House mentally rubbed his hands together with glee.

"I said," House put just enough annoyance in his in voice to make it sound like he was simply irritated over having to repeat his question, "Why aren't you drinking tonight?"

"Well, I didn't think of it, I guess," Wilson stalled again.

"Didn't think of it?" House had moved on from annoyed-sounding and was working some incredulity into his tone, "You mean to tell me the day you found out you weren't going to die that you forgot to celebrate?"

"I didn't forget," Wilson responded defensively. "I just didn't want to drink."

"Since when?" House asked. "Are you becoming a teetotaler on me, Wilson?"

"About the time you regain your virginity, House."

"You don't have to impugn my virtue."

"Can't impugn something that doesn't exist."

"Ouch. But I notice you still didn't answer my question."

"What difference does it make?"

All House had to do was look at Wilson with a raised eyebrow.

"Fine," Wilson conceded, without House having to say anything. "My stomach hasn't been great since the chemo."

"But you ate that huge steak!"

"And that worked out just _so_ well, didn't it?"

House knew that wasn't the real reason. After all, even though Wilson didn't eat anything spicy tonight, he had still been able to put away some high sodium, carb-laden, deep-fried food. If his stomach had been the least bit iffy, he wouldn't even have wanted to look at it or smell it, let alone eat it. Sadly, House knew all too well what a bad stomach felt like – he'd been through detox too many times not to.

Of course, he had never been through chemo, so he couldn't directly challenge what Wilson was saying. He'd have to find out some other way.

They watched the TV for a few minutes while House nursed his beer. There was something nagging at the back of his brain. Something about the effects of alcohol on Wilson. Well, he knew it made Wilson stupid. Stupid enough to leave his pants behind and go wandering the streets, like at Chase's bachelor party. But, it was something else.

House's mind keep searching and circling because it didn't want to go there. He never wanted to remember the bus accident and Amber dying. Hell, he never wanted to remember Amber. She was his delusion, and worse than that, the only thing that ever really came between him and Wilson. But there was something there, tickling at the back of his mind . . .

"House!" Wilson exclaimed. "If I wanted to be ignored, I'd have never left my wives."

"I'm not ignoring you, Wilson," House countered. "On the contrary, you are now my sole focus."

"S-sole f-f-focus?" Wilson queried anxiously. "Why would I be that?"

House smiled inwardly at Wilson giving another tell. (Technically, it was the same tell, just happening a second time.) Why was Wilson so uptight? Was he anxious about the sex they were most likely having soon?

House pondered that for a moment as the TV droned on in the background. If Wilson were a virgin when it came to man-on-man sex, maybe that was why he was nervous. But, that couldn't be, could it? For all his goody-two shoes image, Wilson simply didn't turn down opportunities to get laid. It wasn't in his nature, as two of his three ex-wives would (and did) attest.

Even into his forties, Wilson was, for want of a better word, pretty. House imagined him in college, all young and fresh-faced and sweet, attracting every gay and bisexual man on campus. Wilson had to have succumbed to at least some of those offers. And that was college. Wilson most certainly could have picked up any man in a gay bar that he wanted to, and probably did, on occasion. No, it wasn't the sex itself that was worrying Wilson, House was convinced.

House vaguely heard Wilson trying to get his attention, but House was too lost in thought to respond. Unhappily, Amber kept popping into House's brain. There was something about drinking and Amber and sex.

As House chewed on his mystery, he felt something. Wilson had started to kiss and nip gently at House's neck. As much as House's body wanted to just go with it, his over-active mind couldn't. Suddenly, House remembered and it clicked.

"You didn't drink because you were afraid it wouldn't work!"

"What?" Wilson abruptly stopped his ministrations to House's neck and pulled away, much to House's regret. "What wouldn't work? You mean us?"

"No, you moron! Little Jimmy! You told me Little Jimmy doesn't work when you get drunk."

The red that quickly enveloped Wilson's face told House all he needed to know. That was the answer. And then something unexpected happened.

"You sacrificed a buzz so we could – " House's fist came up and moved quickly forward and back - the universal sign for humping. "That's, that's . . . very sweet of you."

The last statement House made should have been in a mocking tone, but, even though it was a surprise to both of them, it wasn't. It was whispered and almost, well, tender.

Wilson was deeply touched, but he knew if he said anything, the mocking he had feared would come on in full force. So, he simply showed House he understood by placing soft kisses on House's temples, forehead, chin, cheeks and nose. He lingered when he got to House's eyelids, eliciting soft sighs from House.

Wilson moved on to House's mouth, kissing all around the edges at first. When their lips finally came together, it was soft and slow. Both their mouths opened and their tongues caressed.

They broke for air and rested with their foreheads together.

"Are you still going to want me when I'm puking and shitting uncontrollably and bald, with a gnarly scar?" Wilson questioned. He didn't sound particularly worried. More like curious.

"My God, you're more vain than any woman I know. Yes, I can deal with you when you're not pretty. You've cleaned up my puke countless times, and you even wiped my ass after the infarction. And at least _your_ hair will come back. As far as gnarly scars . . ."

Wilson smiled against House's temple and then kissed him softly. "You know I don't give a crap about that, don't you? Other than the pain it causes you."

"And the drugs it makes me take?"

"I'm not going to have much of a liver left to be able to give you any of it after the chemo. So I do worry about the drugs, too."

"I don't want your damn liver, Wilson."

"And I don't want to experience the irony of surviving cancer to find the love of my life dying of liver failure."

"What do you want me to do, Wilson?"

"See a pain management specialist."

"So he can prescribe biofeedback and Lortabs?"

"Yeah, because you got sent to one quack thirteen years ago, all pain management is bogus. And, of course, medicine has made no advancements since then. I'm not saying you have to accept whatever he or she says without question, House. Just go and listen, will you?"

"Fine," House put dismissiveness into his voice, even if he wasn't totally adverse to the idea. He had no expectations that anyone could help him, but he'd do it for Wilson. Actually, he clarified in his mind that he'd do it to _shut up_ Wilson. Yeah, that sounded better.

House was reluctant to admit he would do anything for anyone he was in a relationship with. He'd tried that with Cuddy, bending to her most ridiculous demands. He still couldn't believe she got pissed off about his not taking out the garbage. Didn't she know he was a cripple with a cane and that it was difficult for him to do things that required walking and the use of two hands?

And that thing about his using her toothbrush? Honestly? They were kissing each other on a daily basis (among other things involving bodily fluids). Did she think that the spit they swapped when they sucked face was somehow germ-free?

And then when he relapsed, she dumped him without a second thought. The year and a half he'd been clean, the fact that he'd done it because he was so afraid of losing her, even the fact that addicts sometimes relapse, none of that even made her pause. And she'd dumped him and never looked back, like it, like _he_, meant nothing to her.

At the time he'd thought he hurt her with the fake marriage, but he wasn't so sure now. She did help him when he cut open his leg, but then she'd backed him into a corner and made him admit he was hurt. That was just pure selfishness on her part – she put him through the emotional wringer so _she_ could get closure.

Well, that was all over now. It still had the potential to make him irritated, but he was no longer enraged the way he had been that day. He regretted what he'd done, especially hurting Wilson, but he done his time for it, and he had moved on.

So, then, did that make it okay that he was considering something just because Wilson asked him to do it? He was sure Wilson would get upset that House wouldn't conform to what Wilson wanted on things like toothbrushes and taking out the garbage, and he most certainly would let House know it. But, House was also convinced that Wilson would resign himself to it, and that Wilson would never leave him because of it. Even the drugs. So, would it be so terrible to let Wilson have a victory now and then? Probably not.

"Can we get back to what we were doing?" House asked, trying to ignore that warm feeling he was having. (It couldn't be blamed on the spicy food now. Maybe the A/C wasn't working properly?)

"No argument here," Wilson agreed as his mouth found House's mouth again.

They kissed for a few more minutes, with the intensity level increasing the longer they went. They decided it was time to take things to the bedroom.

They selected Wilson's room rather than House's old room because House's bed had been stripped when he left and they (that is, Wilson) didn't feel like making it up. The fact that this was the bed that Wilson and Sam had used to have sex (House refused to think it was anything more than just the physical act) made it all the sweeter for House. He was the rightful bedmate for Wilson, and he had stuck with Wilson long enough to outlast her.

They didn't do any of that romantic clichéd claptrap - kissing down the hallway and falling on the bed, breathless. They walked (in House's case, limped) down the hallway, and used the bathroom to undress, pee and brush their teeth before bed. (Of course Wilson had a spare toothbrush for him.) They found themselves naked in bed together.

"Um, what do we do now?" Wilson asked in a nervous voice.

"Did you re-discover your virginity while flossing, Wilson?" House snarked. "Just do what you'd do with any guy you've picked up in a bar."

"It's not, I mean, uh, . . . " Wilson's awkwardness was obvious. So was his lack of denial. House had been right that Wilson had had sex with men before.

"What's the problem?" House questioned. He'd wanted sex with Wilson. He'd waited for it for fifteen years. "Are you deciding you don't want to do this?"

"No!" Wilson's denial was swift and definite. Well, that was good.

"So, what's going on?" House took some of the irritation out of his voice to let Wilson know he was just trying to understand.

"This, this . . . " Wilson paused. "You and I, we, we've waited for this for a long time. I want it to be good. Hell, I want it to be great – the most spectacular fireworks on the Fourth of July, the best meal you've ever eaten, the most thrilling roller coaster ride . . . "

"That's a lot of pressure, Wilson."

"I know. And I want . . . something else. I want to feel the love between us."

Wilson paused and looked away. He waited for the barrage of sarcasm and mocking that he knew would be coming out of House's mouth any second now. The silence that greeted him was a total surprise. He turned his face to look at him, only to see one of the most tender expressions he'd ever seen on anyone, let alone Gregory House.

House said nothing, but his lips found Wilson's. And that kiss – it was soft and needy and full of the most exquisite longing. Wilson was melting and getting seriously aroused at the same time.

"House . . . " in that single word, Wilson said so much. Their hurt, their love, their brokenness, their completeness, and their simple enjoyment of each other.

"Don't talk, Wilson," House whispered, as though words would somehow stop the flow of emotion between them and break the spell. House kissed Wilson again, his tongue stroking Wilson's, and Wilson returned the gesture.

Wilson was on his back. His arms reached for House to pull him closer. House slid the upper half of his body over Wilson's. Wilson let out a small moan.

House suddenly remembered the tumor in Wilson's chest. It wasn't large by any means, but if pressure were applied to it, it could cause pain in the sternum.

"Did I hurt you?" House asked, attempting to pull away.

"The opposite," Wilson reassured him, pulling House back down where he was.

"Then why the moaning?"

"Because having you on top of me, kissing me, makes me hard," Wilson answered as his mouth found House's again. Wilson pressed his erection against House's abdomen, and felt House's erection against him.

Their kissing became more passionate, without losing any of its deep ache.

After a few moments, they paused their kissing, but continued a slow rocking motion. Their cocks were rubbing together and becoming even harder.

"Lube's there." Wilson pointed to the nightstand on House's left.

House reached over and opened the drawer. He felt around and got the tube. He also felt some packets.

"Do you want me to . . . use a rubber?" House asked. He was becoming breathless as the rocking continued.

"Haven't been with anyone since Sam," Wilson groaned slightly as House added a little more pressure. "So, unless they got you in the slammer or Domenika gave you something , , , "

"I'm clean," House said with a small groan.

"Then let me feel you inside me," Wilson whispered.

House pulled himself away from Wilson and applied the lube to both of them.

He waited outside of Wilson for a moment. He eased himself in as gently as he could, since Wilson hadn't been with anyone for a while.

It was very tight, but yielding, and the lube helped. House began to pull himself out and push himself in.

Wilson shifted slightly under House and moaned. House was hitting just the right spot against his prostate.

House was resting on his left leg and his right forearm, and keeping his right leg out of the way as he pushed. His left hand found Wilson's cock and he began to stroke in time to his thrusts.

"House!" Wilson cried out as his organism exploded all over his abdomen. House immediately followed, ejaculating deep inside Wilson. He waited until he softened before he pulled out.

They both rode on a cloud of endorphins, held in each other's arms. As they came down from their high, Wilson began to fidget.

"Should have remembered a wash cloth." Wilson commented, suddenly aware of the semen between them.

House said nothing but moved away to grab his t-shirt from the floor. He wiped himself and Wilson off.

"Okay, Miss Neatnik?" House questioned as he threw the t-shirt back on the floor. "You care about the stupidest shit sometimes."

"Sorry," Wilson said. "I just didn't want you to be uncomfortable, House."

"And you know how little bodily fluids bother me and how much your faking concern does."

"I wasn't faking House."

"Whatever."

They settled back in.

"Well?" House asked.

"Well, what?" Wilson questioned back.

"Was it fireworks and roller coasters, and true _lerve_?"

"Shut up, House."

"What? Just seeing if I was able to satisfy, that's all."

"I just shouldn't have expected all that. It was foolish."

"It was idiotic. How long have we known each other? How could we have possibly have had that profound of an experience? It would be like expecting a barber you'd had for twenty years suddenly cutting your hair so that you looked like Brad Pitt."

"I don't care how good your barber is, that would never happen with your hairline, House."

"Gee, thanks, Wilson."

"It was really good, House."

"You mean _I_ was really good."

"I'd like to say that I missed that ego of yours, but you've never given me the chance."

"Hey, when you've got skills . . . "

There was a pause.

"Speaking of skills, it did strike me that you were not, um, new to this, House."

"I lost my virginity at sixteen, Wilson. Her name was Karen, I think . . . "

"Please, I don't need to hear your entire sexual history – "

"Not if we want to get to sleep tonight."

"Gregory House, Sex Machine. Spare me. I just meant you seemed to know what to do around, um, a man . . . "

"I'm not a gay virgin, Wilson."

"Do you mind if I ask who?"

"Well, there was the gay masseur I hired for Cuddy."

"Oh my God. Seriously?"

"Well, I had to see if he was any good at giving massages, and one thing led to another . . . "

"Did Cuddy ever find out?"

"Can't say. Although I think she suspected."

"And she wasn't mad?"

"She was always mad. It could have been about that, or it could have been about something else."

"She did spend a lot of your relationship pissed off at you, didn't she?"

"Not everyone understands me the way you do, Wilson."

Wilson smiled in spite of himself. "Getting back to the previous topic, you've had more experience that just a quickie with a male hooker, House."

"It is obvious from my expertise, isn't it?"

"Who was your first?"

House paused, debating with himself whether it was worth it to tell Wilson about his past. Well, they were together now, and this was the kind of thing couples talked about.

"You remember I told you once that I would have married Crandall?"

""I thought that was because you loved his car, not him."

"Who said I loved him? He was an annoying moron. But that didn't mean when we were stoned that we didn't have sex."

"Oh."

"What, 'Oh'?" Quit the moralizing, Wilson. Unless you're telling me your first time was based upon deep love and commitment. You know, the kind you can't possibly have any clue about when you're a freshman in college because you're an eighteen-year-old idiot."

"How did you know it was when I was a freshman in college?"

"Well, you wouldn't have done it under your parents' roof. And guy-on-guy isn't exactly something you do in the back of the car without getting arrested, especially twenty-five years ago, so I figured you waited until you were away from Mommy and Daddy."

"An upperclassman picked me up at a party and took me back to his apartment. And you're right; it wasn't deep and profound."

"I thought not."

"Come to think of it, it wasn't deep and profound even when I was married. Maybe when I was with Amber. And only because I thought she was a female version of you."

"Then why not tonight, when you were with the real deal?"

"I don't know."

"Of course you do. You were hanging more expectations on this one act than ornaments on a Victorian Christmas tree."

"Forgive me if I don't completely understand the metaphor."

"This from a Jew who would wear a moose hat on his head at Christmas and pretend it's a reindeer."

"What can I say? I got caught up in the spirit of the holiday."

"That was when you first started dating Amber, wasn't it?"

"We had our first date on Christmas Eve."

"So, that's why you couldn't spend it with me."

Silence filled the space between them.

"I'm not going to apologize for loving Amber."

"And I'm not going to apologize for being jealous and hating her guts."

Wilson smiled. "You know, at one point I thought the two of you were cheating on me."

"I'd never cheat on you, Wilson."

"I know that now."

More silence followed.

"I'm in this for the long haul, you know."

"Being a cripple, everything I haul takes a long time."

"Turns out, I have the time to wait."

At that point, there were no more words. They kissed softly and slowly. Wilson turned on his side and House spooned behind him. They fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Does anybody really think at this point that I have anything but an emotional claim to House?

Wilson's surgery was scheduled for the following week. House was beginning to move a lot of his things into the loft. They had discussed getting a new place together, but with Wilson facing several months of feeling crappy, and House not really able or willing to drag himself around looking, they decided to stay put until Wilson was through chemo and feeling better.

House also informed Foreman he was taking family medical leave. Foreman wasn't sure how he could justify that to the board, since Wilson wasn't formally family to House, but he'd figure something out. In the meantime, he'd hired back Chase to run the diagnostics department. What would happen when House came back from family leave was anyone's guess, but they'd figure that out, too.

Much to Wilson's surprise, House took Wilson to all his pre-op appointments, and stayed with him through all his tests. No doubt part of it was because House didn't trust the judgment or competence of any other doctors besides himself and Wilson, and he knew Wilson wouldn't be able to keep track of everything as a patient.

Could the other part be that House was actually trying to be caring? Wilson didn't want to assume that. After all, House had basically run in the other direction when he thought Cuddy had cancer, and the only way he'd been able to get himself to support her in any way was by going back to drugs. Well, at least that shoe had already dropped and Wilson didn't have to worry about House relapsing, ironically enough.

But, did he need to plan in case House couldn't take it at some point and he bolted? But, how could Wilson know that? House had been with him every second of his first round of chemo, holding his head when he puked, taking whatever nasty crap Wilson said to him, being willing to change Wilson's shitty diapers, and even sharing his Vicodin with him. Of course, that was a short-term thing. Wilson had no idea how House would be over several months of less severe but still nasty treatment.

They also hadn't been in a relationship when Wilson did the first treatment (other than secretly loving each other for years). In any case, Wilson didn't want to put them under unnecessary strain. He began to look discreetly for a caretaker.

He knew if he picked anyone young and female, House could easily become jealous or be "distracted" himself. So, Wilson ruled that out. Likewise, anyone young, male and attractive.

The problem was they needed someone fairly strong, so that ruled out most post-menopausal women. There were probably some fairly strong, fit, sixty-something men, but if Wilson hired one and it turned out he was gay, that would be another problem.

So, Wilson refined his search and found someone who was young, strong, female and . . . not particularly interested in men. Since House was going to be on medical leave, Wilson hired her for the night shift, so House could get a break after taking care of Wilson all day. If it turned out House was MIA during the day, too, Wilson would just have to hire someone else. Maybe her girlfriend?

With that accomplished, Wilson spent most of his week re-assigning his patients. He hated to do it because he was emotionally as well as professionally invested in them, but he had no choice. House mocked him about it, of course, but he was also especially good to him every night when they made love.

And it was loving-making, not just sex. Not that it wasn't hot and needy and tremendously satisfying. But there was also an emotional connection – the one that they'd both wanted the first time they were together.

In fact, as the surgery got closer, the emotions became even stronger. They both knew the surgery was necessary, but they also both knew very well that any surgery, especially one so close to the lungs and to the heart, carried risks. And so, they became more verbally aggressive with each other, almost to the point of outright antagonism, and, yet, they grew physically closer.

Not just the sex, but the touching. They made out in Wilson's office between Wilson's appointments handing off patients, and snuggled together on the couch in the evenings. They'd even held hands across the table when they went out to dinner. Since they were two towns away from Princeton, it wasn't exactly a PDA in front of everyone they knew, but it was a beginning.

The day of the surgery arrived, and Wilson seemed completely calm. Of course, House had to challenge him about it.

"Your Zen is completely unnatural Wilson, and it's creeping me out."

"It's not a big deal, House."

"Not a big deal? Do you know the percentage of bad outcomes for this kind of surgery?"

"Yes, and it's not high."

"But it's still there."

"Fine. Let's worry about a very small risk and wallow in gloom and doom. It's such a good way to ensure a positive outcome and a happy patient."

"If you wanted happy, you would have never hooked up with me, Wilson."

"True enough."

"By the way, you still haven't answered me, why so calm?"

"I'm not an idiot, House. I know there are risks with any surgery. I just want to get rid of the cancer."

"But there's more."

"Yes. Would we have, um, gotten together without this as a catalyst? Would we be thinking about a future together, as a couple, without this? As bad as this thing is, and as much as I want the surgery and chemo to be over, it's also a beginning. I'm going to live and we are going to start a new life together."

"And cue the Carpenters. While I gag."

"I have hope, for the first time in I don't know how long. In spite of everything that I'm facing in the next few months, I'm happy."

"Oh my God, get help for your greeting card addiction, I'm begging you!"

Well, that reaction was predictable. Wilson knew he shouldn't have said all that to House. But he couldn't help it. It was how he felt. He knew House's default position was worst-case and being miserable, but couldn't he even try something else?

Wilson had packed a small bag, mostly with toiletries, which he had no idea if he would actually use, but packing had given him something to do the previous evening and helped him work off some nerves.

"I'm getting my stuff for the hospital." Wilson turned away from House to head back to the bedroom. Before he was able to take a step, he felt House spinning him around. He saw the briefest glimpse of House's face – that same tender expression he'd had just before their first time together.

House's mouth found his. It wasn't forceful, but it was insistent, and soft and oh so deliciously needy. It made Wilson's heart ache.

After kissing deeply for several moments, they paused and Wilson caught his breath. He knew if he said anything emotional, he would break the mood, so he rested his forehead against House's neck.

"I'd love to do it with you, but I don't think we have time for that now."

"There'll be time, Wilson," House whispered.

At that moment, Wilson knew House not only understood everything Wilson was feeling, but that House felt the same way. It was all he needed to face what was coming. He put his arms around House and pulled him tight. And House returned the embrace, pulling Wilson into him.

H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/

House had been exiled to the observation area above the operating room. He would have paced back and forth, but then he might have taken his eyes off the surgery and possibly missed something. So, he sat on the bench closest to the glass panels over the operating room, watching intently and bouncing his leg up and down, using the pain to work off nervousness and help him keep focus.

"If you keep that up, you're going to wear a hole in my floor," Foreman announced as he entered the observation area.

"Since when does this floor belong to you?"

"Since replacing it comes out of my budget. Take it easy."

Foreman sat down next to him.

"No major problems yet, I take it," Foreman observed.

"No knives slipping and slicing open a heart or a lung, if that's what you mean."

Foreman winced in spite of himself and all his training and experience in being detached. He just couldn't do that when it came to Wilson.

They watched as the tumor was lifted from Wilson's chest.

"Well, that's done," Foreman remarked.

"That was the easy part," House responded. "Wait until they cut Wilson's – " House's throat dried up and he could no longer speak.

Foreman put his hand on House's shoulder just long enough to avoid having it pushed away or hearing a caustic comment. Maybe logic was better for both of them.

"That's the top pulmonologist on staff," Foremen remarked indicating the doctor who was currently taking pieces of Wilson's pleura. "And that guy waiting to biopsy Wilson's pericardium is the top cardiac surgeon in New Jersey, and most likely in the Northeast."

"And what a feather in your cap it was to have hired him, Foreman," House replied sarcastically. "I'm just sitting here waiting for the opportunity to lavish praise on your recruiting skills."

"Having your best friend operated on by the best heart surgeon in the Northeast is quite the hardship, House."

"And I'm just eternally grateful!" House snarked.

"I might almost believe that if I didn't know that in the dictionary under ingratitude is your picture."

"I'd be hurt if I cared."

Foreman rolled his eyes.

The monitors began to beep. Foreman was amazed how quickly House got up and got to the speaker near the glass wall.

"What the hell did you idiots do?" House barked.

The monitors stopped almost as quickly as they started.

"It's under control," the cardiac surgeon said.

"Make sure it stays that way," House snarled into the speaker as he returned to his spot on the bench.

"Um, if my best friend were opened up like that on the table, I might hesitate to piss off the guys that were operating on him," Foremen observed

"You have no friends. So, this has relevance to me in what way?" was House's retort.

Foreman rolled his eyes again but refrained from further comment. The rest of the surgery was without incident, and, before long, Wilson was in a bed in intensive care. Foreman made sure House had a reclining chair from the OB/GYN lounge. Not because he cared about House not being exhausted or in pain, but because he didn't want a weak Wilson to have to deal with an over-the-top cranky House. At least that's what Foreman told himself was the reason.

House spent the night in Wilson's room and waited for them to wean him off the anesthesia in the morning.

H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/H/W/

Wilson vaguely remembered counting backwards, and then nothing.

He fought his way out of darkness into what he hoped was the light of his hospital room and not the other light his patients had often talked about when they'd been brought back from being clinically dead.

The tube in his throat and the pain in his chest let him know he hadn't gone towards the wrong light. He opened his eyes, and he was surprised House wasn't at his bedside, and, quite frankly, a little upset. That was until he saw House at the door of his room, leaning out, yelling something.

"They're going to come and pull the intubation in a minute, Wilson," House informed him as he returned to Wilson's bedside. "Just hang in there, okay?"

Wilson felt a large hand gently cup his cheek. It skimmed his forehead and traveled down his other cheek and rested.

Wilson would have smiled at House's obvious concern, if he were able to, but he had that damned tube in his mouth. He was getting more and more distressed by the machine pushing air into his lungs. His body wanted to breathe on its own.

The pulmonologist entered the room, and seemed, to House at least, to be lacking any sense of urgency.

"So, how are we doing today, James?" he inquired breezily, as though the two of them had made their tee time and were starting eighteen holes.

"Just get the damn tube out of his throat before he chokes, will you?" House growled.

"Someone is a little testy today, eh?" The pulmonologist chirped happily. He had removed the tape. "You know the drill here, just blow out as I pull. On the count of one, two, three. Go!"

Wilson pushed out with his lungs as the tube was removed. The inevitable coughing ensued, along with a seriously pained expression on Wilson's face.

"Chest hurts, I know," the pulmonologist acknowledged as Wilson's coughing settled down. "We'll get you something for that after the neurological check-up. And here is the neurologist now."

"Doctor Foreman," the pulmonologist nodded to his boss as he finished his charting and left the room.

Foreman nodded in return and turned his focus to Wilson. "I'm sure your throat hurts like hell and you can hardly wait to get your pain meds, so I'll keep this brief and minimize the talking you have to do."

Wilson gave Foreman a wan smile and he completed the checks quickly.

Foreman was getting ready to tell the on-duty nurse to administer the pain meds when the oncologist showed up.

"I know you want something for the pain, but I thought you might also want to hear about the surgery and biopsy results," Chen stated.

"I'll give you some privacy," Foreman said as he left the room. It was a bit of a ruse, pretending to care about Wilson's privacy, seeing as how Foreman, as dean of Medicine, could check any patient's results in the hospital database, but in case this turned out to be awkward or emotional, Foreman didn't want to see Wilson, or even worse, House, break down.

"Well, obviously, we successfully removed the tumor," Chen began. "As we knew from the MRI, it shrank from your first chemo – " Chen paused, letting his disapproval of their unorthodox treatment method show for a moment – "visually, it looked like the pleura and the pericardium were clean. The biopsy results confirmed that. So, with some prophylactic chemo just to be sure, I think we'll be able to declare a remission in six months."

Wilson and House were both silent, taking in the information. It wasn't exactly a surprise, but it was still good to hear.

"Well, James," Chen interrupted the silence, "I'll leave you alone with your significant other. Let the nurse know when you are ready for your pain meds."

He left the room.

Wilson, to the extent he was able, turned to look at House.

"Significant other?" he croaked. "Did you out us while I was under anesthesia, House?"

"No."

Wilson raised his eyebrows feebly.

"I didn't say anything."

"Then why does he think we're together?"

"We _are_ together."

"House, I'm in serious pain, I want my meds and I don't want to strain my throat with unnecessary talking. How does Chen know about us?"

"These walls are glass."

Wilson gave House a look that said he should continue. On pain of death.

"I may have engaged in some PDAs, Wilson. You know, putting my hand on your shoulder, putting my hand on your cheeks or your forehead gently." (House would have died and let the floor swallow him up before he used the word "caressed.") And, I, uh, held your hand and possibly, um, kissed it a few times. And then there were your lips. I mean, kissing them, uh . . . "

House had been looking at the floor while he was explaining this, both from embarrassment and from fear that Wilson would laugh at him or tell him he was an idiot or otherwise reject him. He looked up slowly to find Wilson smiling at him. A big smile. Considering how much pain Wilson must be in, that was saying something.

Pain. Shit! "I'll get something for your pain _right now_."

House moved as quickly as he could from the room and brought back a nurse who gave Wilson an injection in his IV.

Wilson began to float and knew he would be under soon. As he drifted off, he reached for House's hand. He clasped it and kissed the back of it. He promptly fell asleep.

Wilson continued to hold House's hand, even though he was sleeping. House didn't move until his hand started to tingle and let him know it was losing circulation. He eased it away from Wilson's and immediately regretted the loss of contact.

"I love you, Wilson," House whispered. He kissed Wilson's forehead and reluctantly climbed into his chair, adjusted his pillow and blanket and fell asleep.

House's nap ended with Wilson waking up around noon. Wilson was on an IV and wasn't eating food. House went to the cafeteria to get some lunch and brought it back to the room. Wilson remarked that the opportunity to lie in bed and watch House eat was one shared by very few people. Just Coma Guy, and now himself.

House remarked that what Coma Guy did could only loosely be called "watching," and that Wilson should feel privileged. Wilson was still too fuzzy to come up with a witty remark so he simply gave House an eye-roll.

Wilson dozed for most of the afternoon, while House worked on his laptop. Wilson would have been more curious about what House was doing if he hadn't felt so crappy, which served House's purposes perfectly.

House had contacted the Physics department at Princeton and was applying for their PhD program. Given his age, education and professional experience, they had agreed it was unnecessary for him to complete graduate course work and could move on the phase where his thesis topic would be reviewed.

House needed something to keep him occupied besides cleaning up after Wilson for the next few months, especially with no puzzles from a case. So, he decided he would knock out a physics thesis. It would keep his brain engaged and hopefully keep him from some of the destructive behaviors he engaged in when he was bored. Also, when Wilson was done with his chemo and deciding his new career path and looking for a new job, House would be ready to go, too.

He only hoped that Wilson didn't wind up at a hospital with nothing but a community college nearby, so that House would have no opportunity to do research and would be teaching a bunch of eighteen and nineteen year olds who wanted an easy A and would be constantly bugging him about what was on the final rather than actually learning anything and could he please bump that "C" to a "B" so their GPA wouldn't keep them from getting into some lame state school program with some idiot major like marketing or communications.

Hopefully, Wilson would wind up at a university hospital, preferably with a university attached that had a decent physics program. If not, well, House would deal with it. House had decided that, from now on, the relationship would be primarily about Wilson. It seemed only fair, what with Wilson being the one coming back from death and being so ill. So, it was Wilson's turn to be taken care of, to the extent House was even capable of doing that, as sort of a repayment to Wilson for all those years he took care of House.

Of course, House would never say any of this to Wilson. He told himself it sounded too caring and would give Wilson endless opportunities to mock him. The real reason was that it was against House's nature to be seen caring for anyone. He did it because it was right, not for any "credit" he would get, either from the person or from society. He done it for his fellows countless times, and he'd done it for Wilson, too, just not as often as he should have. Well, they had the rest of their lives together to make up for that.

Wilson woke up again in time to watch House eat dinner. He would have resented it, but he really felt too sick to even think of food. They did laugh quite a bit. Wilson found that if he held his chest, it wouldn't hurt too much. So, dinner passed by pleasantly enough.

Wilson had taken his pain meds and was asleep for the night. House washed up, brushed his teeth and peed in the bathroom attached to the room. He knew when he got back into his chair, he was not going to get up again for a while, so he got a glass of water to put on the nightstand and made sure his laptop was plugged in within reach of his reclining chair in case he woke up during the night and needed something to do.

The last thing was a quick kiss on Wilson's forehead, and what was becoming his nightly declaration, "I love you, Wilson."

House moved toward his chair and sat down. He suddenly became aware that Chase had entered the room, which startled House.

"Where the hell did you come from?" House growled.

"_My_ office," Chase replied with a self-satisfied grin.

"Why aren't you saving some hapless patient from some unknown horrible illness right now?"

"I sent Taub to get a better history and Park and Adams to do tests. You know, I had had some idea, but I never truly realized how little work you actually did."

"Laziness, when done properly, is the subtlest of art forms."

Chase was standing at the foot of Wilson's bed. He reached down for his chart and began to scan it.

"Are you a doctor on this case?" House questioned.

"Not officially, no," Chase admitted. He didn't stop reviewing his chart.

"Then I think you should stop."

"Why?"

"Well, you're violating Wilson's privacy under HIPPA."

Chase snorted in derision. "A department head who, as a matter of routine, sent the doctors on his staff to break into patient's homes is concerned about HIPPA? Please."

"Fine." House conceded the point. He truly didn't give a damn about HIPPA, as his actions amply demonstrated. He just wanted to bust on Chase, who had finally learned after all these years not to take the bait. House felt a small amount of pride at that, for some reason.

Chase replaced the chart in the holder. He looked at House thoughtfully.

"What?" House asked. Chase was creeping him out a little with that look.

"You could tell him, you know," Chase interjected.

"Tell him what?"

"That you love him."

"I just did."

"I mean, when he's awake."

"If you honestly think I'm going to accept relationship advice from you, you're more delusional than I was when I went to Mayfield."

"You have to admit I'm an expert on what not to do."

"And you have to admit that's the one few areas of relationships I don't need any help with, either."

"True. Still you should tell him. When he's actually listening."

"He knows I love him."

"I know that. That's not the point."

"Then what is the point of saying something that someone already knows?"

"I don't know. I just know you should do it."

"Cameron dumped you because you didn't say it enough?"

"Cameron dumped me because I couldn't live up to her rigid morality. And I told her I loved her all the time."

"So, she was the one that didn't say it to you," House concluded.

Chase assumed House would be triumphant, even gloating at this bit of news. But he was actually rather quiet. Pensive, Chase thought. And Pensive House was one of Chase's favorite versions of his mentor - of the only real father Chase would ever know.

"No, she didn't," Chase admitted. "And it hurt like hell. Do you want to hurt Wilson?"

"No," House admitted quietly in turn. There was silence between them for a while.

Chase cleared his throat.

"Everything looks good with Wilson," he noted unnecessarily to fill the silence.

House ignored the comment. "You seem to be walking okay."

"I still have some pain and it can be tough to get going on cold or damp mornings," Chase noted. "But it's not bad."

"And I'm still sorry you got hurt."

"I know. And I'm sorry I never told you I forgive you. I do, you know."

House cleared his throat to prevent it from closing up. His voice only cracked slightly when he asked why.

"I was raised Catholic, and we tend to keep track of actions on a big cosmic whiteboard. When I put everything you've done to me on one side and everything you've done for me on the other, the list on the left is way shorter than the list on the right."

"So, my good works outweigh my sins? I'd never have guessed that. You could have made a mint selling me indulgences."

"Yeah, well, I have to make sure I have more stuff on the positive side than the negative side of my whiteboard, too."

House's mouth quirked in a tiny smile that would have gone unnoticed by most people.

Chase smiled back. "Anyway, just tell him, okay?"

House nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment. Or, at least that's how Chase decided to interpret it.

Chase left the room and headed back to his office. His team had to be back by now.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Don't Own, Etc.

Wilson was transferred from Intensive Care the next day, and discharged from the hospital four days after that. He was feeling pretty strong, considering he'd had his sternum cut open with a power saw, but that wasn't uncommon in open heart procedures. He wished that he didn't have to have the treatment, but he knew he needed to have chemo in case there were any cancer cells left in his body, especially since the tumor had not been encapsulated when they first found it.

He had to wait several weeks before he could start chemo, just to make sure he was as strong as he could be. It was strange for him, but it was the first time since he was a child that he'd had this much free time.

He spent some time researching and thinking about what he was going to do after his chemo was over. He'd already decided he was getting out of oncology. But, he still wanted to help people and he still wanted to use his medical training. He started to check out other specialties, preferably ones that had better averages of positive outcomes.

He still liked kids, and he wondered if he would make a good pediatrician. Of course, he wasn't going to either set-up or join a pediatric practice. He was too used to working in a hospital at this point. So, he would need some kind of pediatric sub-specialty.

He was strongly considering pediatric pulmonology. It was an area where there were deaths, of course, like any area of medicine. But, a lot of the cases involved serious conditions like asthma, which could be fatal, but were also very treatable.

While Wilson was researching hospitals that had good pediatric pulmonary departments, House had told him he was completing a thesis proposal in physics. So, Wilson added a nearby university with a good physics department to his list of criteria.

Wilson had agreed with House that he wanted to be a department head, and if there were an opening like that in a place where he wanted to go and he were able to get the job, that would have been wonderful. But, he also realized that the odds of that kind of opening occurring at the right time were pretty slim, forget about how tough the competition would be. So, Wilson re-adjusted his expectations and decided he could be a doctor on staff. Even there, the competition would be tough.

Wilson's research found that Mass General was one of the best hospitals in the country in many areas, including pediatric pulmonology. It had the added bonus of being near Harvard and MIT, both with good physics departments.

That would be the ideal place, if they were both able to find something. He'd keep his fingers crossed that it would work out.

Wilson's mind tripped to something else about that location – Massachusetts allowed same sex marriage. Wilson had no idea why that thought even occurred to him. House had certainly never expressed a desire to be married to anyone – unless it was a sham marriage designed to piss off a former significant other or to trick the government into giving someone a green card. And Wilson was a three-time loser. Not exactly an indication that he would be successful in the future.

So, why was he even entertaining the idea? His relationship with House was an order of magnitude more committed than any other relationship he had ever had, so that made the odds a marriage would work much higher. But, if they were already committed to each other, what did marriage add to it?

Unless they were going to be raising a family, it wasn't critical for them. A family? Was Wilson really considering that?

He knew during that chemo treatment he'd said that he wished he had a wife and children to be with him. He winced now when he thought about it. Here was House taking care of him in the most intimate of ways, purely as an act of love, and Wilson was telling him we wasn't good enough. That he wasn't anything that important to him. That Wilson wanted to die in someone else's arms. And House had just taken it – he hadn't told Wilson to go to hell, he hadn't thrown Wilson out, he'd just listened and continued to help him. He hadn't even let Wilson apologize later.

The thought of Wilson hurting House like that caused Wilson pain. He loved House with all his heart, and if he just hadn't been so fearful he would have admitted it – consequences be damned. But, he hadn't. He'd let House believe for all those years he was nothing more than a good friend.

Well, that was over now. Wilson decided he would spend the rest of his life loving House, and he would let House know that. Hell, he'd never let him forget that. And he vowed that the relationship would be about House now. A staff job after having been a department head was nothing compared to what House had done for him. Wilson would happily accept that to make House challenged and happy. Or at least less miserable.

Wilson also decided it was time to let House know how he felt. Of course, he couldn't say anything, but he knew House would accept physical affection. So, he started to show it as often as he could. He'd kiss, lick, and nip House on the back of the neck when House was on the computer. He'd drape his arms around House's neck when House was brushing his teeth. He slide his arms around House's waist pretty much any time that House was standing upright, and he made sure to rub his face all along the side of House's face when he did that. Of course, now that neither of them had any schedule to speak of, that usually led to more.

Later, looking back on that time, Wilson remembered how House felt inside him, and he also remembered how it felt to be inside House. But he remembered other things. The flavor of House's toothpaste. The smell of his cologne. (It was true, House didn't shave often, but he did, surprisingly enough, use cologne after every shower.) The way House's hair looked after Wilson pulled his t-shirt over his head.

House didn't care how he dressed, other than wanting to look rebellious. The only thing he was terribly vain about this hair. And, of course, the thinner it got, the more self-conscious he became.

Wilson didn't know if it was his awareness that soon he would be losing his own hair, but he could not have cared less about the condition of either House's hair or the growing size of his exposed scalp.

What did get to him was the vanity. It was so utterly adorable it made his knees weak. Of course, he couldn't say anything even remotely like that to House. So, he just made it a point to cover House's increasingly bare scalp with kisses every chance he got. He could only hope House would return the favor when Wilson's hair fell out.

And House hardly held back. He kissed Wilson's ears and his nose and his neck and his face. And then there was the healing spot on Wilson's chest that would soon become a scar. More than once, House kissed him there and shuddered involuntarily, reminding Wilson of House's own surgery, scar and continuing pain.

Wilson would feel his tears sliding down his cheeks every time he felt House react. He would wait for the inevitable mocking and would be surprised every time when the lips of his lover covered his cheeks in kisses. There would be some soft moaning, too. They both decided they didn't want to know who it came from.

Their days passed all too quickly. It was summer in New Jersey, and it should have been oppressive, but it wasn't. There was some sort of high pressure bubble or inversion or something and it was in the low eighties, dry and sunny for a couple of weeks. Neither of them was going for a run, but they could sit on the bench in the park and secretly cop feels as they looked at the young mothers watching their kids on the playground equipment.

Of course, that meant they would become so horny that they couldn't last an hour, and they would almost make it home before they started kissing. They'd just about make it through the door before they were shedding clothes. They'd wind up naked on the bed, touching and kissing and feverishly wanting each other.

Those intense needs would be satisfied in the most delicious of ways, with hands, tongues, mouths, and two beautiful, huge cocks. Yes, both House and Wilson were more than well-endowed, and they enjoyed each other without reservation.

It was a precious pocket of time on their long journey together, and it passed all too quickly.

Wilson went for his first chemo session on a Monday. Well, when he was working, Mondays always sucked, anyway, so this was no different. The perfect weather was gone, too, and it was excessively hot and humid. A typical July in New Jersey, but that didn't make it any more comfortable. At least the hospital, his car and the loft were air conditioned. He couldn't imagine undergoing treatment in that heat without it.

Much to his surprise, House came with him. Wilson was pleased until the phlebotomist had a little trouble finding a vain and inserting the shunt. It had hurt quite a bit, even with the local, and despite Wilson's efforts to hide it, House knew. His reaction was to do everything but physically threaten the phlebotomist.

"He's doing the best he can, House," Wilson felt compelled to try to calm down House. If nothing else, he didn't want a guy who was jabbing and cutting into his arm to be either scared or pissed off.

"There's a damn vein right there," House growled, pointing to Wilson's arm, but ignoring Wilson otherwise. "Are you blind?"

"I _am_ trying, Doctor House," the phlebotomist answered. That comment would have led to a barrage of abuse if he hadn't been successful. "Got it!"

"I should have had more fluids," Wilson apologized.

"You could have put a garden hose down your throat and another one up your ass and this idiot still would have botched it up," House growled.

"House!" Wilson admonished him sharply, or at least as sharply was he was capable of, having just had someone digging up his forearm. For a brilliant man, House could be such an idiot sometimes. For God's sake, the last thing they needed after coming out to the entire hospital was to have angry techs gossiping about their throats and their backsides and garden hoses.

"It's over, House," Wilson said, trying not to have the entire phlebotomy department angry at this choice of significant others.

House remained silent and simply glared at the retreating back of the tech. He kept quiet because Wilson wanted it, but looked really pissed off.

In actuality, House wasn't really angry. Well, he was, but that was almost beside the point. It caused him pain to see anyone he loved be hurt, and he loved Wilson beyond, well, he just loved him. A lot. To see his beautiful, strong, sinewy arm have a shunt in it was bad enough. To know it would soon be filled with the toxins of chemotherapy was even worse. To think that Wilson's arm would also be cut up, scared and bruised, well, that was just too much.

House looked at the shunt and the tape now covering it. He drew in a shaky breath.

"Hey," Wilson said in a near-whisper, "It's okay,"

"No it's not," House argued. "It's not okay. I'm the one who's supposed to be sick. I'm the one whose body gets scarred. I'm the one who's supposed to suffer . . . " House's voice held another hitch, "Not you. Never you."

"It would appear otherwise," Wilson noted dryly. He had a wry smile on his face. He pulled House towards him and brought his mouth to House's temple, giving him a soft kiss. His face slid down until his forehead was resting against the side of House's face.

"This isn't diagnostics, House. You don't spend a few days trying to figure out what is wrong with a young girl, dramatically pull a tick out of her who-who and the problem is solved. This is cancer, and it's a long, slow, tough slog."

"I know that, Wilson."

There was a pause.

"Listen, if this is not something you want to go through, I understand. If you want to leave now—"

Before Wilson had the chance to finish the sentence, House's lips were on Wilson's. He pushed his tongue into Wilson's mouth and began caressing Wilson's tongue with his own. It was needy, urgent and completely loving.

They weren't sure how long they had been kissing when they heard the sound of a throat clearing.

"Excuse me." Cheryl was one of the older pharmacy techs who worked in the oncology department. She was in her middle fifties, of medium height and rather hefty, with brown hair and green eyes. "Just let me hang this bag, okay?"

She worked silently as she swapped out the saline that the phlebotomist had hung when he put in the shunt. She opened the valve on the IV. She lingered to make sure the bag was dripping and adjusted the flow.

"What, no comments?" House snarled at her. "No counseling us that we are going to hell if we don't give up our wicked ways?"

Cheryl smiled. "I'm an atheist, so it's not likely I'd be condemning anyone to a place I don't believe in. And the only reason I'd ask you to stop is because I don't have a long enough break for a cold shower. My God, that was _so_ hot!"

Wilson was already blushing from having been interrupted, and her comments just deepened his blush. He knew if he said anything, he'd just stammer, so he kept quiet and smiled. He could only hope House wouldn't say anything too offensive.

"Damn right, it was hot!" House agreed. "Tell your friends, there's plenty more where that came from."

"House!" Wilson finally found his voice.

"What?" House feigned innocence.

"It's okay, Doctor Wilson," Cheryl interjected. "Just a little something to spice up my morning."

"You're not even the least bit shocked?" Wilson questioned.

"There have been rumors about the two of you for years," Cheryl replied, grinning. "It's nice to see you finally being open about it. Enjoy!"

"Well that was unexpected," Wilson remarked, after Cheryl left.

"Only by you," House replied.

"What?"

"Wilson, why do you think I always clean your clock when we play cards? You're the opposite of a poker face. Everyone has seen you mooning over me for years."

"I don't have chemobrain yet, House. Cheryl said there were rumors about the _two of us_. Apparently, you're not as good at hiding your feelings as you think you are."

"Shut up, Wilson."

"Yes, dear."

House gave Wilson a lingering kiss on the forehead.

Wilson didn't feel too horribly after his two-week course of treatment, certainly not as bad as he had when he did the heavy duty stuff at House's apartment. Sure, he was nauseous and vomiting and he had diarrhea, but there was nowhere near the pain he had before.

While that was a relief, it made Wilson think about the pain House felt every day. They set up a shared a calendar to keep track of Wilson's appointments, but Wilson saw nothing on there about House seeing a pain management specialist.

Had House set up an appointment and forgotten to add it to the calendar? That was certainly possible, but, given how conscientious House had been about going with Wilson to his appointments, that didn't seem likely.

The only conclusion Wilson could draw was that House hadn't made the appointment. Had it been further along in the treatment, Wilson might not have had the energy to deal with it, but he still hadn't had enough fight knocked out of him yet not to want to at least push House a little. He knew it wasn't going to go over well, to say the least, but Wilson felt it was important and that he'd be distracted with his own situation soon, both with his health and his professional life.

And it wasn't only Wilson's concern about House chewing up his liver with drugs. That was what he'd told House, of course, because it was non-emotional. Well, it was a little emotional but it was hardly an area for high drama, not to mention it was grounded in medicine. Which House was always more likely to accept.

The more emotional part of it for Wilson had to do with his own experience of pain during the heavy-duty chemo. Along with the vomiting and the uncontrollable diarrhea, it had been several days of excruciating pain. As House had predicted, every nerve ending in his body was on fire. It was unremitting and Wilson wasn't sure how he'd managed to get through it, even with the help of House's vicodin.

In all honesty, the thing that really allowed him to endure it was knowing that it was temporary. It was three or four days at most, and then, for better or worse, it would be over. Luckily, it turned out to be for the better, but that was almost beside the point when it came to the pain.

However, as Wilson continued to think about the experience later, another realization hit him. House _lived_ like this. All the time. There was no waiting to get through it. No promise of eventual relief. It was always there, and always would be. A relentless, searing agony.

It made Wilson feel guilty. If he'd said that to House, House would have launched into a diatribe about Wilson's need to bleed for humanity, his Jewish guilt, etc. It wasn't that at all.

Wilson had not recognized how much pain House was in all those years. Sure, he could claim the excuse that he didn't really know what felt like until he experienced it. And he could say that House did a damn good job of covering it up. He could also claim that House was a bastard who manipulated people into thinking he only took pain meds for the high it gave him.

While all of that was true, it still didn't excuse what Wilson had done. House was in agony most of the time, and Wilson had basically dismissed House's dire need for pain relief as House just being a junkie. It was cruel beyond anything House had ever done to him, or really, to anyone.

Wilson did not believe himself to be a cruel person. Sure, he would realize one of his marriages or relationships wasn't working, and he would sometimes stray. But he never did that to actively hurt his wives. It just seemed to sort of happen. Well, maybe that was an excuse, but, still, he never set out to punish or injure anyone.

Then why had he been so horrible to House? Wilson thought about it for a while and he reluctantly concluded that because he loved House, it bothered him to think of House in such terrible pain.

It was easier for Wilson to cope with it by thinking that House was exaggerating and it wasn't really that bad. Wilson knew the terrible suffering of his cancer patients, but he fooled himself when it came to House, because he just didn't want to deal with someone he loved hurting so much. It was easier for him to deny it.

And that was what made Wilson feel guilty. He denied the suffering of the person he loved the most in the world. He could ignore all of House's desperate attempts at relief – trying to steal nerves from the CIPA patient or faking cancer to get drugs that would be injected into his brain, or risking a heart attack by taking methadone, or even being willing to take a completely experimental drug that later caused tumors in both the lab rats and in House. And that didn't include the detoxing and relapses and all the other crazy behavior – no doubt aided and abetted by a soul in agony and looking for anything as a diversion.

All of these things were signs – hell, they were goddamned billboards – that House was in a bad way. And Wilson had ignored them, just so he wouldn't have to think about the person he loved being it pain. To make _Wilson_ feel better.

Well, that was about to end. Wilson wasn't going to ignore House's pain and he wasn't going to continue to let House muddle through. He knew it wouldn't be easy. Well, that was the understatement of the century. And knew House would fight him, but, while he still had the strength, he had to do something.

He broached the subject. "House, we need to talk."

"Oh, god," House groaned. "What is it? Did I forget to clean the hairs out of the sink after I shaved? Did I leave the toilet seat up, Miss Neatnik?"

"First of all, you don't shave. Second, I don't care if you leave the toilet seat up, which is one of the advantages of having a relationship with a guy. Anyway, I was checking the calendar for the next few weeks – "

"You don't need to worry about that, Wilson, I've got it under control."

"More likely one of your former minions – Adams or Park – does, but that's not the point. I'm not talking about my schedule, I'm talking about yours."

"What schedule? I'm on maternity leave. Other than working on my PhD, I have no schedule."

"What about your OB/GYN check-ups?"

"Huh? You do realize that was sarcasm, don't you, Wilson? That I'm a man and I can't be pregnant? Or is the chemo affecting your brain already?"

"I thought it was meta talk."

"Referencing what?"

"How the hell should I know, House? All I know is you told me you'd go to a pain management specialist, and I don't see even one appointment on your calendar."

"Been kinda busy, Wilson, what with trying to get my PhD, and taking care of my seriously ill significant other."

"Oh, no, you don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't attempt to avoid this. You promised me."

"Yeah, well . . . "

"No kidding, House."

"Okay, okay, I'll do it."

"Here's the number. And I'll even let you use my phone." Wilson produced a business card and handed it, along with his cell, to House.

House looked at the card. "How do I know this guy isn't another quack?"

"Because I've worked with him for five years. My former patients knew a little something about pain, too, House."

House glanced at his watch. "Oh, look. It's 12:15. His office is probably closed for lunch. I'll call later this afternoon."

"I happened to know the office has coverage now, House. Call them."

"Well, I don't have my calendar open on my laptop. I don't want to make an appointment that would conflict with one of yours, Wilson."

"Don't you dare!" Wilson almost shouted. He was frustrated with House's delay tactics, and he was even more frustrated with what House appeared to be doing. "Don't you ever use me and my illness as an excuse to avoid dealing with your pain!"

"Geez, Wilson, take it easy." House was taken aback by both Wilson's forcefulness and his unwillingness to be diverted. That was surprising. Well, he'd have to use another tactic then. "Last time I checked, this was _my_ pain. You don't have any right to tell me what to do about it."

"I'm no longer just your friend, House. I'm your significant other. We're building a life together, so I get some say in what happens to you."

"You want me to give up the Vicodin so I don't fry my liver."

"It's not just that. It's . . . "

"What?"

"Well," Wilson hesitated. This was important and he could seriously screw this up. Still, he had no choice but to proceed. "I never understood before . . . about your pain . . . I probably still don't really understand, at least not about how it never stops . . . how you live in pain all the time . . . I just want . . . I don't want you to feel like that if it can be stopped . . . or lessened . . . Godammit, House, I love you and I want you to stop hurting!"

House was surprised again, both by what Wilson said and the force with which he said it. "What brought this on, Wilson?"

"I . . . I was remembering my own pain from the chemo I did. The only way I got through that was to keep telling myself, for better or worse, it would be over. Then I realized, there is no 'over' for you. It just goes on day after day . . . "

"Well, gee, thanks for that reminder of how my life sucks, Wilson. I'd almost had the chance to forget."

"Except you don't get the chance, do you?"

House was silent.

"See the pain management doctor, please?" Wilson asked. House noted he wasn't the only one who could do an excellent version of puppy-dog eyes.

"Wilson," House's voice held tones of confession, "I'm not sure I can."

"Why not?" Wilson asked gently, not swayed by House's manipulations.

"I don't know," House stated forthrightly. He really wasn't sure why he kept putting this off. "I'm used to things the way they are?"

"That's part of it, I'm sure," Wilson agreed.

As much as House liked medical puzzles, Wilson liked emotional ones, especially those involving his best friend, now lover. "But, there's more . . ."

"God, spare me the analysis, Wilson, I've already been to a shrink."

"It wouldn't kill you to go back, but I'm not going for that diversion, House."

"Damn. Do we really have to figure this out right now?"

"I'd say no, but then you'd never want to figure it out and then you'd never go."

"You're on to my scheme."

"It didn't take knowledge of rocket science to work that out, House."

There was a pause.

"Wilson, isn't it lunch time yet?"

"It's 12:30, almost past it. You keep this up, it'll be dinnertime."

"What are we having for dinner?"

"Food, mostly. And why don't you want to do this?"

"I just don't. I don't want to waste my time with another quack . . . "

"I told you this guy is good - one of the best . . . wait a minute, that's it, isn't it!"

"What?"

"The last time you went, it was obvious what the guy told you wouldn't work and you could dismiss him. This time it very well could work – "

"And you think I'm a masochist and don't want it to."

"No, of course not. Not the guy who faked brain cancer to try to get a drug injected directly into his brain or who risked a heart attack using methadone or who tried a crazy-ass experimental treatment that gave him tumors in his thigh that he tried to surgically remove in his own bathtub."

"I'm not sure that last example helps your argument."

"Well, maybe not. But, I think you live your live trying to minimize pain, not seek it out. And, if it didn't work this time, you wouldn't be able to discount the doctor involved. So, it would mean that, most likely, nothing would help you."

"I've known that for a while, Wilson."

"No, you've _believed _it for a while. It's a whole other thing to know for certain that you can't be helped. It destroys all hope."

"Hope is for sissies, Wilson."

"Hope is for humans, House, and the last time I checked, you were human. Very human."

House was about to deny it, when Wilson put his hand on House's package and rubbed lightly. House felt himself respond.

"That isn't a sign of humanity, Wilson."

"If it were just a sexual response, no, it wouldn't be.

"What else would you call it . . . " House hissed, "But a sexual response , _uh_ - "

"That silly look on your face tells me it's not just your body that's responding, House." Wilson removed his hand.

"Hey," House protested, missing the contact. "Don't, um, leave me like, uh . . . "

"I'll take care of you after you call and make the appointment."

"You can be a manipulative bastard sometimes, you know?"

"Let's just say I've realized I have more ways to 'convince' than I used to."

"Yeah, that moralistic haranguing worked _so_ well."

"Hence, why I've changed tactics. Here's the phone."

Wilson dialed the number and handed it to House. He got up and got a piece of paper and a pen for House to write down the date and time.

Wilson could just about make out the voicemail listing the choices on the phone tree. He decided telling House which number to punch was not a great idea.

House pressed a key.

"Um, yes," House responded, obviously having reached one of the office staff. "I'd like to schedule an appointment. Yes, I'll wait."

Wilson heard the faint sound of the hold music.

"Yes," House said again. "I'd like to make an appointment . . . Maheshjwar . . . really? No, I don't want to see another doctor, thanks . . . Yeah, six weeks is a long time, but if that's as soon as I can get in . . . "

At this point, Wilson was waving at House to give him the phone. House most likely wouldn't have done it except Wilson looked so adorably nerdy, frantically flapping his hands. He told the receptionist to hang on and oh-so-slowly handed the phone to Wilson.

"Hello," Wilson said as he snatched the phone from House. "Is this Janine? Hi, it's James Wilson. Okay, how are you? What grade is Madison in now? Really, third grade already! Yes, the time really does go by so quickly. Listen, Janine, I was wondering if you could help me out here. Are you sure you don't have any appoinmment times for Ravi for six weeks . . . Oh, I see . . . Yes, I understand he's going to a conference and then he's going to visit his family in India. I'm so sorry his father isn't doing well."

There was a pause as the receptionist spoke.

"Listen, I know this is a lot to ask, but is there any way for him to see House this week before he leaves? I know, but it's really important . . . Um, no, he's not a patient of mine. Actually, I've put my practice on hold for a while because I'm sick . . . Thanks . . . Cancer. Ironic, huh? Anyway, can he see him? It's really important . . . Not formally family, no . . . He's my significant other."

House waited for the inevitable rejection. Why hadn't Wilson just lied and said House was a patient? It would have been awkward when the doctor asked House about his cancer, but, so what? House could have either bluffed or blustered his way through that.

"Thanks . . . thanks _so_ much . . . that's all we can ask for . . . I'll wait by the phone . . . Thanks again, Janine."

"What?" House asked, after Wilson hit the "end" button.

"She's going to see if they can fit you in sometime this week," Wilson replied. He looked apprehensive but pleased.

"Oh, goody," House replied.

"You know this is only the first of several appointments, House," Wilson reminded him. You'll still have plenty of time to put off dealing with this when Ravi leaves the country."

"Be thankful for small favors, I guess."

Wilson rolled his eyes, even as he took House by the hand and slowly led him to their bedroom. A promise was a promise, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry this took so long, but at least it's fairly lengthy to make up for it. Thanks for your patience.

* * *

Disclaimer: As much as I love both House and Wilson, they don't belong to me, alas.

The pain management specialist was unable to see House the week before he went away. House breathed a sigh of relief as Wilson wrangled an appointment for House the first week the doctor returned. House, compassionate soul that he was, hoped the elder Maheshjwar's health continued to deteriorate, so the physician would be forced to stay in India longer. They'd have to wait and see.

Wilson's chemo continued and a significant amount of his hair started to fall out. Wilson wouldn't have minded this so much, if it had come out either all over his head, or in some kind of pattern. At least that's what Wilson told himself. That would have simply left him looking balding, like a lot of guys his age.

As it was, his hair seemed to fall out in random clumps. There was a bald patch on top, and one on each side, and it was thinning to the point of see-through on the back of his head near his hairline. The texture of Wilson's hair, which he had always been proud of, at least until now, didn't help things in his current situation. The thickness and floppiness of what was left made him look like either a clown with a very old wig that was in serious need of replacement, or character in the Sunday funnies.

Wilson decided to take matters into his own hands, and one evening, when House was out picking up takeout, Wilson got out a couple of disposable razors. Wilson would have been successful with his plan, if the damn food hadn't been ready early, House hadn't come right home, and he hadn't needed to use the toilet.

"Wilson!" House growled as lurched into the bathroom. He quickly grabbed the hand holding the razor and kept it away from Wilson's head, "What the hell are you doing?"

Wilson struggled a bit, but quickly gave up, realizing that, in his weakened state, or, even before his weakened state, he was no match for House's upper body strength. He surrendered the razor and went for indignation instead.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Wilson asked, attempting to display his righteous anger. "I'm dealing with this ugly mess on my head!"

"First of all," House began, "If you're doing this for me, forget it. You can have a full head of hair, thinning hair, hair in patches or no hair at all and it won't make any difference how much I want you."

Wilson realized this was as close as he would probably get to an admission of acceptance from House, and, even as his heart felt warmer acknowledging that, he thought he had no choice but to stand his ground.

"Maybe you don't care," Wilson admitted, "But other people do."

"And these 'other people' matter to us how, exactly?"

Okay, Wilson didn't have a response for that, but he still couldn't give in.

"Fine. Maybe it isn't about other people. It matters to me, House."

"God, you're more vain than any airheaded teenage girl."

"Well excuse me if I give even the slightest crap about my appearance."

"It's just not that bad, Wilson."

"Not that bad? I look like an ugly version of Bozo the Clown!"

"Shall I start calling you 'Pennywise'?"

"Just shut up, House."

There was a pause as they each gathered their thoughts.

"Listen, Wilson. You can be as vain as you like. You can get a mani-pedi for all I care. Just don't try to shave your own head."

"Why?"

"Seriously? The idea that a person weakened to the point of having unsteady hands and being immuno-compromised is trying to use a sharp object in a place on his body that he can't see, thus vastly increasing the odds, respectively, of accidents and serious infection, and that the area itself is very near his brain, wouldn't, as a physician, give you pause?"

"No, well, um, maybe, um, how the hell should I, I mean . . . "

"Well, that was a cogent, well-reasoned, logical rebuttal."

Silence fell between them.

"I feel shitty and ugly, House, and I have to do something about this," Wilson tugged on one of the remaining chunks of his hair with disgust. "If I can't take care of it myself, just what do you suggest I do?"

House's initial inclination was to mock Wilson's vanity and then ignore him. But, he knew Wilson well enough to know that wouldn't be effective in stopping Wilson from trying to shave his head and risk a brain infection. So, he had to come up with an alternative.

"Hey, don't you already pay a queer salon guy an exorbitant amount of money to keep your hair perfect?"

"Um, I hate to mention this, House, but our relationship makes us queers, too."

"Technically, since we've slept with women - a lot of women - we qualify as strongly bisexual. In any case, you should go to your hair fairy and let him remove your remaining tresses."

"I don't know . . . "

"Afraid he won't find you as hot without your mane? Have you been flirting with him, Wilson? Should I be jealous?"

Wilson knew with the act of House asking, House wasn't the least bit concerned. (If House had been jealous, he'd have been playing all kinds of games to get Wilson to admit something.)

"Please," Wilson said dismissively.

"Fine, just go to Mister Light-In-The-Loafers and get it taken care of, or do I have to make an appointment for you, like you did for me?"

"That was completely different - yours was medical care, mine is, oh, just forget it."

Wilson pulled out his phone, found the number in his contacts and hit send.

"Hi, Jerome?" Wilson asked and tried to ignore House making an incredibly stupid yet hilarious face as he silently and exaggeratedly "pronounced" Jerome's name.

"This is James Wilson. Do you have any time this week . . . no, it probably won't be a very long appointment, since I just want my head shaved . . . Well, thanks, but not anymore . . . because I have cancer and I'm undergoing chemo and what hasn't fallen out looks awful . . . I'm doing reasonably well . . . yes, Thursday at ten will work. . . thanks again."

Wilson hung up. "Satisfied?"

"Not until I get you between the sheets."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Spare me the pseudo-lewdness House. I know how ridiculous I look."

"As opposed to your Superman-hands-on-hips-pose? Or your squinty-I-can-be-compassionate-to-this-bald-cancer-kid-face? Or your House-what-has-he-done-this-time-self-righteous expression? Wilson, if I cared about how ridiculous you looked, I'd have never fallen in love with you."

Wilson stared briefly at House. "It's Tuesday, and I'm not leaving the condo until I go to get what's left of my hair shaved off on Thursday. With the chemo, I'm not particularly hungry. So, you're on your own when it comes to food for the next few days."

Wilson turned away and headed toward the bedroom. When he got there, he closed the door with a firmness that let House know he was not welcome to follow.

House was completely floored by Wilson's reaction. Son of a bitch, what had he done? It was certainly nowhere close to the most offensive thing House had ever said, especially to Wilson.

House thought back to his last attempt at a relationship with Cuddy. He'd always managed to piss her off with the most, at least in his mind, trivial things. He'd commit what he considered a minor infraction, and she would cut him off for days. Hell, even when he was trying to be helpful, she'd get angry.

And now, he'd done something to get Wilson mad. Really mad. Dammit, he just couldn't do this relationship thing. It didn't matter who it was – Stacy, Cuddy, or Wilson. He just sucked at this and there was no other way to see it.

House decided he wasn't hungry. He grabbed the takeout bag from the kitchen counter and put it in the refrigerator. At this point, if he had been alone in his apartment, he would have played the piano to work out his emotions. But, since there was no room in the loft, it was still back at Baker Street, and House didn't want to drive there now. It would feel too much like walking out on Wilson.

Of course, the organ was there in the condo, but House hadn't really touched it since he'd moved back in. There were too many emotions attached to it – the surprise and joy when Wilson first gave it to him, the contented times Wilson had listened to him play when Wilson was working in the kitchen getting dinner ready, and then the searing hurt when Wilson got back together with Sam and unceremoniously pushed House out.

Wilson had even said House could take "the stupid thing" with him when he left. It was so dismissive of everything House had felt about the organ (and, apparently, Wilson hadn't) that House was nearly overwhelmed by pain it caused him. Of course, Wilson still had no clue about any of that to this day.

House thought about going to bed, most likely to ruminate rather than sleep, but it was pretty obvious Wilson didn't want House anywhere near him. He could try the couch, but his leg would be screaming in a couple of hours, and he didn't think Wilson would take kindly to the loud thumping sounds House made dragging himself around the loft trying to work off his pain.

He could use the second bedroom, but there were no sheets on the mattress – they hadn't needed to use that bed since they were sleeping together.

House could make up the bed, but he wasn't thrilled at the prospect – it took a lot out of him to move around the bed multiple times to put on a mattress pad cover, a fitted sheet, tuck in a top sheet and then adjust a comforter. It was a lot of walking, turning in tight spaces and bending down – all the things his leg vehemently opposed and was never shy about letting him know it.

The thing that made it even worse was that the linen closet was in the bathroom off the master bedroom, which meant he'd have to walk by Wilson twice - once to go in and retrieve the sheets and the second time to go back out to the other bedroom.

Well, it wasn't like House had any choice. He could only hope that Wilson was either asleep (not likely at eight at night), or he was so mad at House he wouldn't speak to him. Such a happy situation.

House moved as quietly as he could down the hall to the bedroom. Should he knock? He pondered that for a moment just outside the door. It was then that he heard something. It was Wilson, of course, but what was that sound he was making? It was whimpering and heaving and sniffling, and son of a bitch, Wilson was crying!

As usual, House had no idea why anything he had said would make Wilson cry. It wasn't that bad, was it? No, House knew (or thought he did) that it simply wasn't that terrible. And that started to make him angry. He knew women could be hyper-sensitive, but one of the major perks of being in a relationship with a guy was to be able to avoid all that picayune bullshit, wasn't it?

Okay, that was the proverbial fucking last straw. If he was going to screw this up (and it seemed almost certain that he would), he might as well just do it.

House entered the room to find Wilson lying on top of the bed covers, facing the door. He was curled up in a ball, hugging a pillow. His face was stained with tears and his nose ran freely. His breath was hitching furiously.

"Guh . . . guh . . . go away, House!" Wilson forced the words out of his throat.

House hated most emotions, and strong emotions, in particular. And the fact that he couldn't for the life of him figure out what he'd messed up made it even worse. His frustration and anger came boiling over. His reliving all that hurt didn't help, either.

"Dammit, Wilson, what the fuck did I do this time?"

"W-what?"

"What did I do to make you cry?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I hate it when you pull the 'relationship' card, Wilson, but I'm going to give it back to you. We're in a relationship now, and we have to talk about these things." House put on his best mock earnest expression.

Wilson sighed painfully and rolled over away from House.

"Oh no, you don't," House exclaimed as he quickly made his way around to the other side of the bed and sat down. The intensity of Wilson's crying had abated, but he was still sniffling.

"You of all people know my track record at fucking up relationships. I honestly don't know what I did wrong, Wilson. If you refuse to tell me, how can I ever fix it?"

"It's nothing you can fix, House."

"It's that bad? Should I start packing and go back to my old apartment?"

An expression of agony flashed across House's face. It was brief, but long enough for Wilson to see it. A fresh flood of tears suddenly overtook Wilson.

"That's it! I'm done!" House exclaimed in exasperation and started to get up.

Wilson hastily grabbed his hand. "Don't go, please," he begged softly.

"Just tell me," House pleaded in return.

"You didn't mess up," Wilson whispered.

"Then why are you crying?"

"You said you loved me. Out loud."

Had Wilson told House this calmly, and had they been sitting on the couch, watching TV, it most likely would have drawn a mocking retort. In fact, it would have been almost inevitable, and it would also have been accompanied by a side of sneer. But, after the emotional roller coaster House had just been riding, and looking at Wilson's tear-soaked face, House simply was incapable of any snark. He bent down and carefully slid his arms around Wilson.

"Of course I do, you idiot," was all House could possibly say.

A deep moan, accompanied by a shudder came out of Wilson as House enclosed him tightly in his arms. House climbed on the bed next to Wilson and they rocked together for an indeterminate amount of time, clinging to each other for dear life.

"House," Wilson spoke ever so softly into House's ear.

"What is it?"

"I want to . . . be with you, but I'm not sure I can."

"You don't know with the chemo if you can get it up, and you're not sure your body can take my huge dick pounding away inside you."

Well, so much for the deep emotion and maintaining the romantic spell. Wilson smiled in spite of himself. "Something like that."

"And yet, Little Jimmy hardly seems unenthusiastic," House noted as he felt Wilson's manhood through his pants as they held each other. He pushed against him slightly, letting Wilson feel House's eagerness, too.

"I just don't know how long I can maintain . . . " Wilson's voice trailed off in embarrassment.

"Oh, stop worrying," House scoffed. "Just let me . . . "

House undid both his and Wilson's pants, and pushed them down, along with their boxers. He reached down with his large hand and his long fingers and encircled both of them. True, this wouldn't be the same intimacy as one being inside the other, but it would have to do for now.

House brought his hand slowly up and down, twisting only a little bit at first. He had known what gave him pleasure for several decades, but, he and Wilson had been a couple for only a short while, so he wasn't completely sure what Wilson liked.

As he worked one hand up and down, he wondered whether a circumcised penis responded to touch differently than an uncircumcised one. House knew that with an uncircumcised penis, simply bringing a hand over the tip and pulling it back made the foreskin slide over in a most incredibly pleasing fashion. He got an idea to try to see if he could simulate that sensation for Wilson.

Using his other hand, House began to lightly rub his finger across Wilson's exposed slit. It wasn't really rubbing – it was a very light touch, almost like tickling.

Wilson's body jerked at the sensation and he hissed. "Fuck, House!"

Of course, House had no idea if it felt exactly the same, but it seemed to be creating a reaction of intense pleasure above and beyond the stroking House was doing, and that was good enough.

House continued his ministrations, being sure to vary the speed and pressure with his stroking hand, and vary the way his finger moved lightly across Wilson's tip so he wouldn't get dulled to the sensation.

It didn't take long before House could feel Wilson's body pulsating and on the verge of release. House was close and when Wilson shouted "Greg!" and came, it was enough to put House over the edge.

They both ejaculated with tremendous force, and the result was copious - wet, messy, slick, and smelled both salty and sweet - and it was glorious. And neither House nor Wilson was inclined to do anything but bask in the glow for quite some time.

They recovered bit by bit. Finally, House spoke.

"What, no complaints about this?" House asked, waving his hand, indicating the semen that was slowly drying on their abdomens and thighs.

Wilson sighed. "You know, I say something and you bust my chops, I don't say something and you still bust my chops. Some people are never satisfied."

"I'm actually very satisfied right now," House smirked.

"Me, too," Wilson smiled. "Thanks."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Thank me for having sex with you."

"I shouldn't be grateful?"

"No, you shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"It's not right."

"What's wrong about expressing appreciation?"

"It makes sex into some kind of reward or something."

"Not necessarily. But, even if I were to agree with that, why is that a problem?"

""Because sex isn't some stupid incentive or prize. It's a way for two people to, to . . . "

"What?"

"Communicate how they feel about each other."

"Are you holding out on me, House? Are you reading pop psychology books on relationships?"

"No need to be insulting, Wilson. Forget it."

"Please, I can't ignore this any more than you can ignore a puzzle."

"I never should have said anything."

"Most likely true, but it's too late. So, let's see. Why shouldn't sex be a reward? Because . . . "

House watched the wheels turning in Wilson's head.

"Because, if it's a reward it can also be a punishment."

"Wilson, I had no idea you were into S & M! I'm not fond of having pain inflicted on me, but if you want me to be the sadist and you to be the masochist, I'm willing to at least try it."

"Just what we both need - more physical pain. No, what I meant was, if sex can be given as a reward for good behavior, it can be withheld as a punishment for bad behavior. And you don't like that."

"And if you had ever had a relationship with Cuddy, neither would you."

Wilson shuddered. "I never realized what a manipulative, selfish bitch she was until after you drove the car into her dining room."

"She had a right to be upset about that."

"No argument here on that part of it."

"Then why did you say she was selfish?"

"You weren't here and you didn't see how she behaved. I expected her to be fearful and angry. Anyone would. But she went on and on about her victimhood, and how evil you were, and even more incredibly, how you had no reason to do it."

"Are you saying I did?"

"Not necessarily the act itself, but you had a damn good reason to be really angry at her. Several, in fact. But, she would tell anyone who would listen how much of an innocent victim she was. Like you just woke up one day and decided to come after her for no reason. Like she wasn't responsible for at least half of the dysfunction in the relationship. Like she hadn't totally botched up the break-up."

House was deep in thought. "You really believe that?"

Wilson sighed. "You always say I'm on good terms with my exes, don't you?"

"Yes,"

"Why do you think that is?"

"Large alimony payments?"

"Nope. I know you think I'm completely self-unaware, House, but I do know something – one side is never totally responsible for the break-up of the relationship. I cheated on Sam and Bonnie because I wasn't finding what I needed with them, and Julie cheated on me because I was neglecting her. When something ends, you keep yourself a lot saner when you can admit your own faults and not paint yourself as the innocent victim of the other person's pure evil."

"And Cuddy didn't do that."

"The opposite. And I still would have tolerated it if she hadn't pushed me."

"Pushed you?"

"She kept bugging me about filing charges against you. I told her it would be obvious to any jury that because you made me get out of the car that you didn't intend to hurt me. That didn't stop her from pestering me. Even the cop investigating the case said it was weak, but she wouldn't give up. After a while, I just avoided her as best I could."

"Hmm . . . "

"In fact, she was so obsessed about the whole thing that, after a while, everyone was staying away from her."

"Well, it was traumatic, and since I wasn't exactly popular, I'm surprised she didn't get more sympathy. "

"People started out that way, but when she spent every conversation telling anyone who would listen how malevolent you were and that you deserved to be locked up for the rest of your miserable life and badgering them to agree, well, it got to be a problem, especially with donors. Not to mention the fact that the Board wasn't exactly thrilled to have the hospital's dysfunction aired in public."

"The hospital wasn't responsible for my driving a car into her dining room."

"No, but they were responsible for allowing the relationship to begin with, and they were also responsible, as your employer, for not insisting you go into re-hab after you relapsed."

"Really?"

"Look at it from the perspective of an outsider. The Dean of Medicine starts to date a member of her immediate staff – someone who is known to have mental health and drug issues – breaks up with that person because of a drug relapse and then doesn't do anything about it?"

"Are you saying people blamed her? That's not right."

"It isn't a question of blame. People thought her judgment was really poor and that called into question her competence."

"But, she was the victim!"

"True, but she wasn't innocent."

"Are you saying people thought she brought it on herself?"

"More or less."

"What?"

"Think of it this way. No one wants to see anyone get mauled by a bear. But, people tend to be a lot less supportive if they find out the person who was attacked was poking the bear with a sharp stick just before it happened."

"Hmm . . . "

"That and throw in the discomfort factor of speaking to her, both from her obsessiveness and her saying too much to the wrong people, and she had to leave."

"I never knew she was forced out."

"The Board let her 'resign' so it wouldn't look as bad on her CV, but everyone at Princeton Plainsboro knew what was really going on."

"How come no one ever told me?"

"You weren't exactly close to most people on the staff, so they weren't likely to 'share.' And I just didn't want to bring up a sore subject."

"_Sore subject_? The woman whose house I demolished, for which I went to prison is just a 'sore subject'? What would you call it if I killed someone? A trifling inconvenience?"

"What does it matter what I call it? It's over now and the bitch is gone."

"Wilson, I'm shocked at your using that word."

"Because you've never heard it before. Please."

"Because I've never heard _you_ use it before."

"Well, it is fitting in this case, don't you think?"

"I guess."

"House, I'm more than aware of what you did that day and how we both paid for it, and I'm not even talking about my wrist or your prison time. You were gone for so long and I was so worried about you. First, because I had no idea where you were, and second, when you were in prison . . . let's just say I woke up most nights in a cold sweat from the nightmares I had . . . "

"Is that why you were so distant with me when I came back?"

"And why I hit you."

Wilson and House pulled themselves closer and held each other.

"Don't ever leave me again, House, please."

House felt Wilson shudder. He brought Wilson into an even tighter embrace. They were practically a single body.

"I'm not going anywhere," he reassured Wilson with a whisper. "I promise."

Hey clung to each other for a bit longer, simply reveling the in closeness they had denied themselves for so long. Then, House's stomach rumbled.

"Why don't we get something to eat?" Wilson asked with a smile.

"I thought you weren't hungry."

"I'm not really, but at least I'm not nauseous yet from my treatment today. I should probably eat something while I still can. What did you get me, anyway?"

"Can you stomach a spring roll?"

"Probably nothing that greasy."

"Chicken and broccoli?"

"Maybe the 'chicken' part. The broccoli will give me gas, which is the last thing I'll need when the chemo makes me 'run.' "

"Geez, Wilson, it's a good thing I can't be grossed out. How about egg drop soup?"

"Chinese penicillin. Works for me."

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW HWHWHWHWHWHW

Thursday came and Wilson got up and got ready for his appointment. The side effects of the chemo had kicked in full force and he was quite queasy. House questioned whether he was able to go, but Wilson told him it was either that or the razor near his brain, so House acquiesced.

House suggested some Compazine, but it made Wilson drowsy, and he didn't want to fall asleep at the salon.

House needed to go to the lab to supervise his experiments, so he volunteered to drop Wilson off. House wasn't sure if he would be done by the time Wilson needed to leave, so Wilson agreed to get a cab back to the condo, if necessary.

Wilson was still very self-conscious about his hair, so he wore a Phillies' cap. He knew he'd have to take it off for Jerome to work on him, but at least he wouldn't have everyone staring at him the minute he walked through the door.

He was a bit weak, and House insisted on parking the car and walking in with him. Wilson didn't want it to look like he needed the assistance, so he made sure to put his arm around House's waist and put his head on House's shoulder as they walked in.

House didn't seem exactly comfortable with what Wilson was doing, as he awkwardly put his arm around Wilson's back. Wilson had a fleeting concern about whether his holding on made walking more difficult for House. He felt no tensing of the muscle beneath his hand on House's waist, so it seemed okay.

House pulled open the salon door and brought Wilson over to the waiting area and helped him as Wilson lowered himself into one of the chairs.

Wilson was still uncomfortable about looking like he needed assistance, so he pulled House down for several deep kisses, to the point that House commented that they'd be apart for a few hours at most. Not that House wasn't an enthusiastic participant.

House left and Wilson settled in and looked around for a magazine. _Modern Bride_ and _Glamour_. Nothing much to interest him there. Just as he was thinking he should have brought a book, something struck him. If House hadn't been in pain walking with him, why had he seemed so uncomfortable?

Wilson knew House wasn't fond of PDAs. But, hadn't he and House just been giving each other tonsillectomies in the salon with no objection from House? In fact, he had been downright eager.

So, what was it? Wilson knew that when he and House had considered each other best friends, they very rarely touched each other. Wilson had observed other BFFs who were male and there was usually some kind of contact – a punch on the arm or a slap on the back. Even a bear hug when the situation warranted it, say, when your team won the Super Bowl, especially if you beat the point spread.

But nothing like that ever happened between House and Wilson. Wilson knew he had avoided the contact simply because of his sexual tension. Wilson also knew now that the sexual tension was mutual, so maybe House was avoiding any touching for that reason.

As soon as the thought popped into his head, Wilson knew it couldn't be true. If anything, House would have upped the tension by man-handling Wilson. No, it had to be something else. Why would anyone be so uncomfortable about touching and being touched?

When the realization hit, a chill traveled down Wilson's spine. House had been abused as a child. It was the only explanation.

It explained why he didn't want to go to John House's funeral. If it had merely been that John wasn't House's biological father, House most likely would have been intrigued more than anything else. And he certainly wouldn't have been actively hostile.

No, the only thing that fit was that House was in no mood to eulogize the father who had hurt him.

And that made Wilson wonder just how badly House wanted to be with him that he would put up with being, in essence, kidnapped and brought to the last place he would ever want to go.

Wilson could feel regret and shame wash over him for the part he played in forcing House to go to his abuser's funeral. It had brought them back together, but at what cost to House? Well, there was nothing Wilson could do about it now, except spend the rest of his life loving House.

Wilson's reverie was broken by the appearance of Jerome. Wilson swayed a little as he stood up.

"Hello, James," Jerome greeted him and extended his hand. Wilson took it and Jerome clasped Wilson's hands with both of his.

"How are you feeling?" Jerome inquired. Wilson was glad Jerome didn't make a big deal out of Wilson's less than graceful movements.

"Not too bad," Wilson lied. If he could just keep his stomach from rebelling for a little while, he'd be okay.

"Let's go this way, shall we?" Jerome asked rhetorically. Wilson felt a light yet steadying hand between his shoulder blades as they headed for Jerome's salon chair.

"I didn't know you were a Phillies fan," Jerome commented as he gently removed Wilson's cap.

Wilson tried not to grimace as he saw his reflection in the mirror on the wall in front of him. What was left of his hair looked even worse after having been crushed under a hat.

"Um, not really," Wilson admitted. "I'm actually a Yankee fan, but I didn't think it would be a good idea to wear anything with pinstripes in hostile territory."

"Wise man," Jerome acknowledged as he reached for an electric clipper. "Are we ready to get you looking better?"

"Sure," Wilson answered, as though he hadn't already made the decision days ago.

Just as Jerome was about to start, the phone rang. "Give me one second to answer this, okay?"

Jerome went to the front desk and picked up the phone.

Wilson sat there looking at himself in the mirror. God, his hair was ugly. Jerome had left Wilson's cap on the counter in front the mirror. Wilson decided to grab it and cover himself back up again until Jerome was finished with his call. But, as he went to get up, he felt both dizzy and queasy. He carefully lowered himself back into the chair, closed his eyes and waited for it to pass.

When he opened his eyes again, there was a young woman standing in front of him, holding his cap out to him. He took it and put it back on his head.

"Cancer, huh?" the young woman asked. She was short and muscular, with tattoos on her arms and legs. Wilson couldn't really tell what she was wearing because of the cape she had on to protect her clothes from either the bleach or the dye currently making chemical-processing noises on her hair. Her lip and eyebrow were pierced in a couple of places.

"Yes," Wilson admitted.

"My stepmom had breast cancer," she said flatly, "She was really sick for four years from the chemo, and then she died."

"I'm sorry to hear that. My prognosis is very good," Wilson felt compelled to comment, as though letting her statement pass without contradiction would somehow have a negative impact on him, which was ridiculous, he realized.

"Good," she responded, with no emotion in her voice. "My mom's a whack job and my Dad and I aren't that close, so my step mom was the only one who ever really cared about me. I miss her."

With that she returned to her assigned chair.

Before Wilson had the chance to process the encounter, Jerome came back. "Sorry that took so long. It was the beauty supply company. They royally screwed up our order last time and I told them to go over it with me before they shipped it this time."

Wilson was about to say it was not a problem when his cap was removed and the electric clipper started at the same time a blow dryer went on nearby. He would have had to shout to be heard over the din, so he kept quiet.

Jerome worked quickly and before Wilson knew it, he was done. Jerome spent a couple of minutes brushing the hair aside and making sure none of it when down Wilson's shirt as Wilson checked himself out in the mirror.

Jerome gave a him hand mirror and turned the chair around so Wilson could see how it looked in the back.

"You're lucky your head is very symmetrical," Jerome observed. "Not all men can carry off this look as well as you do."

Wilson didn't feel particularly lucky. He didn't want to be a bald guy with a not-completely-ugly head - he wanted his hair. His brain told him he was being petulant and that this was the price he had to pay to make sure he stayed alive. But, his emotions just weren't willing to go along, at least not yet.

However, he didn't want Jerome to think his resentment had anything to do with him. It had taken him a while to find a stylist he liked, and he wasn't about to be surly and tick him off. He decided humor was the best route.

"It certainly is different than what I'm used to," he admitted, trying to keep any annoyance out of his voice. "I feel like you should be slapping bay rum on my head."

Jerome wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I would never make my patrons wear anything that made them smell like used socks left in the bottom of a gym bag for a semester."

Without any warning, Wilson's brain created that stale, sweaty, sour locker-room odor in his nostrils. His nausea rose from barely manageable to a hardly-containable geyser in a matter of seconds.

Despite his weakness, Wilson pushed himself out of the chair and stumbled as best he could toward the bathroom. The good news was that he made it inside. The bad news was that his aim was terrible.

After he had nothing left, Wilson heaved a few times, which hurt even more. When he finally stopped, he looked around.

There was Wilson's breakfast and what had been left in his stomach of the previous night's dinner, along with a lot of none-too-attractive stomach acid on the toilet, the floor and, yes, even some on the walls. And Wilson was mortified.

He reached for some paper towels to clean it up. The minute he tried to lower himself, a wave of dizziness occurred that almost knocked him over. He leaned against the wall for a moment and waited for it to pass. When he tried again, the same thing happened.

He tried four times, and the dizziness kept occurring, and each time it took a little longer for it to wear off. Wilson knew then that there was no way for him to clean up the mess without either falling down or passing out.

He opened the door to the bathroom to find Jerome standing outside. He looked over Wilson's shoulder and immediately saw the mess.

"I'm so sorry," Wilson mumbled, simply wishing the floor would swallow him up.

"Oh, stop with that," Jerome softly admonished him. "Can you walk over to the waiting area?"

"I think so," Wilson said.

Jerome put a strong arm around his shoulders and they walked slowly. He signaled to one of the other hairdressers to come over and quietly told her to put a sign on the bathroom door that it was being cleaned.

They finally reached the waiting area and Jerome eased Wilson on to the couch. He brought the waste basket over – within Wilson's reach but not placed so that it would be obvious why it was there. Jerome headed back to the bathroom, grabbing cleaning supplies on the way. Great.

Wilson closed his eyes and wished it would all go away. As an oncologist, he knew why this was happening and why it was necessary to go through this, but all that knowledge didn't really help him at the moment. He admitted to himself for the first time that he was just another suffering cancer patient, and, he, like anyone else, just wanted his treatment to be over.

Suddenly, Wilson felt something cool and damp being placed on his forehead. He opened his eyes.

"This made my step mom feel better when she rolfed," the girl with the tattoos said, pointing the wet towel.

"Thanks," Wilson replied.

"Sure," said the girl as she walked away.

Wilson closed his eyes again. He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew someone was shaking him lightly.

Wilson opened his eyes and saw Jerome standing over him.

"I so, so sorry about that," Wilson apologized again.

"James, please don't be," Jerome responded. "You couldn't help it."

"And you had to clean up. I tried to do it but I got so dizzy – "

"It would have been much worse if you had fallen or fainted, so I'm glad you didn't!"

"I bet you weren't glad to take care of that mess."

Jerome gave Wilson a rueful smile. "I know I look way too fabulous to be this old, but I was in my early twenties at the height of the AIDs epidemic. I used to volunteer at a hospice in The Village. Let's just say that what happened to you in the bathroom would have been an easy day there."

"So, you're telling me you're a fellow . . . Yankees fan," Wilson replied.

"Like you didn't know. By the way, that hunk of man you came in with – what a hottie!"

"He's definitely a handful, in more ways than one."

"Lucky you. And it's not just amazing sex, is it? It's obvious to anyone that he adores you."

"Really?"

"You mean you can't see that he's got it bad for you? Oh, hon, open your eyes! If you don't start appreciating him, someone like me might just come along and snatch him away from you!"

"You'd have to kill me first. Not that I could do much to stop you right now."

"Not much better, huh?"

"A little. I'm just really weak."

"Should I call an ambulance?"

"It's nothing that bad. "I'll be okay if I can get home and rest."

"How to you plan to do that? You can't drive, obviously. Can Hottie come and pick you up?"

"I'll call and check. His name is Greg, by the way."

"Even a hunky name. Yum."

Wilson pulled out his phone while Jerome went to retrieve Wilson's cap.

"Well?" Jerome questioned after he returned.

Wilson was surprised that House was ready to pick him up. He grumbled something about needing to straighten out idiot graduate students and that he couldn't do any more in the lab today. Wilson suspected that wasn't the case, but his stomach was still iffy, and since he'd rather puke in House's car than in a cab, he decided not question it.

"House, um, Greg, will be here in a little while."

"Another chance to ogle that gorgeous man. Yes!"

"How much for today, Jerome?"

"It was five minutes of my time. Forget it."

"Well, cleaning up my mess must have cost something in cleaning supplies, at least."

"Mere pennies."

"But, the yuck factor . . . "

"Do we really need to have that same talk again?"

"All right."

Wilson told himself that when he was feeling better, he'd go out and get Jerome a gift certificate for two to a nice restaurant. He put his cap on.

Jerome went on to his next client and House got there quickly.

"What the hell happened?" House demanded more than asked as he stepped through the door and saw Wilson lying on the couch.

"I rolfed," Wilson confessed as he slowly sat up and waited for the dizziness to pass.

"Don't you know you're too damn old to be up all night drinking and whoring around, Wilson?"

"I'll try to do better, House."

"Good."

Jerome came by as Wilson stood up and steadied himself by putting his arms around House's waist.

"Take good care of him," Jerome advised House.

Wilson braced himself for either some snark directed at him, a very politically incorrect insult referring to Jerome's sexuality or, at least, an over-the-top lewd comment, so he was totally taken aback by the way House responded.

"I always do," House replied softly.

"It certainly looks like it." Jerome smiled as he stepped away.

House put his arm around Wilson. It was much less awkward this time.

Wilson was deeply moved, but the last thing he wanted was to burst into tears in the salon, both for the sake of his already battered dignity and of House's.

"Let's go home," Wilson's voice cracked.

They didn't talk in the car, or even look at each other as House paid attention to the road and Wilson closed his eyes and rested his head against the window. A tiny smile ghosted Wilson's lips as House silently took Wilson's left hand in his right. He didn't let go until they got out of the car at the condo.

House gave him a shot of Compazine and left Wilson to take a nap. Wilson got undressed down to his boxers and got into bed. He quickly fell asleep.

Wilson woke up and checked the clock. It was a little before six. Had he really slept the entire day away? Well, it didn't matter, he supposed, since if he'd been awake, it wasn't like he was going to be climbing Everest or composing a symphony. What did matter at the moment was that he really had to pee. He got up and went to the bathroom.

He took care of business and washed his hands. Both the nausea and dizziness seemed to have greatly diminished. So, he took the time to look at himself in the mirror.

Before the cancer, Wilson had never thought much about his hair. Well, maybe that wasn't entirely true, but it certainly hadn't been an obsession of his, the way it was with other men. Of course, Wilson hadn't had to deal with the loss of his hair, either. And maybe that's what hit him so hard now that it was gone.

So, there he was in the mirror, staring back at himself, bald. He winced and stepped away slightly, looking at the rest of his body. The good news was that he was thin for the first time since he was in college. The bad news was he'd lost the weight way too fast. The skin was loose around his chest and it hung around his waist. It was even more ugly than his bald head.

At this moment of Wilson recognizing his supreme unattractiveness, House entered the bathroom. For the second time that day, Wilson wished the floor would swallow him up.

Suddenly, Wilson felt arms slide around him. Then he felt a pair of lips on his scalp. It was passionate, but it was also methodical. Every inch of his head was covered with soft kisses.

As intoxicating as all this was, Wilson couldn't just let it go.

"House!" he said sharply to gain his attention. "What are you doing?"

"I would think it was obvious, Wilson," House responded as he rubbed his erection against Wilson's ass.

"How can you . . . be excited by a, a . . . bald bag of loose skin?" Wilson gestured towards himself in the mirror.

"I always want you."

"What? Why?"

"You're Wilson."

"I don't understand."

"You're here and you're mine and I'm not going to lose you. And that's all . . . " House inhaled a sharp, shaky breath, " . . . that matters."

House was resting his chin in the spot directly above Wilson's collarbone. In the mirror, Wilson saw the tears filling House's eyes, threatening to spill over.

Wilson's eyes were filling up as well. He smiled into his reflection as his tears came. Wilson could see House had a couple of streaks on his face by now, too.

House's mouth found its way to the nape of Wilson's neck and covered it with kisses. He continued to Wilson's shoulders, not missing a centimeter of skin. The contrast of the tenderness of House's mouth with the scratchiness of the stubble on his face against Wilson's skin was utter bliss.

As crappy as Wilson had felt all day, and as hideous as he felt about the way he looked, this was doing some serious things to him. When House asked him to come to bed, he almost couldn't walk, and weakness wasn't the cause this time.

After some passionate kissing, he took House inside him. It seemed House was trying to be gentle. House's cock, as it moved in and out, felt like it was caressing his prostate, as Wilson opened himself up completely to what was happening to him. He thought he would faint from the pleasure. It had never felt like this with anyone else – not the other men he'd been with, not any of his ex-wives, not even with Amber.

House had also been rubbing Wilson's cock as he stroked inside him and it didn't take long before Wilson exploded into one of the most intense orgasms of his entire life, with every muscle in his body tensing and every nerve ending fired to ecstasy. House followed shortly afterward, calling out Wilson's name as he pulsated deep inside him.

They lay in each others' arms, floating and enveloped in pure joy. Neither spoke for fear of breaking the spell.

Finally, House's stomach growled, letting them both know he was hungry. Wilson snorted and looked down, lightly caressing his lover's belly. He looked up again, staring into House's eyes. After Wilson gave House a few light kisses on the lips, he put his arms around him, pulling him as close as he possibly could.

"I love you so much," Wilson whispered, so softly it was barely audible.

House pulled Wilson closer still.

They released one another and got up to clean off. Wilson was still aware that he wasn't much to look at, and went to his dresser to reach for a pair of sleep pants. He found House's hand on his wrist and he turned to look at him. A slight shake of House's head told him everything he needed to know. House loved him and wanted him and actually enjoyed looking at him even in his current state.

Wilson felt warmth in his chest and apparently, his cheeks had flushed. House rolled his eyes and pulled Wilson gently by the wrist out of the room and toward the kitchen. Somewhere along the way, House had grabbed his cane. More surprisingly, at least to Wilson, was that House's hand had slipped down from Wilson's wrist and now their fingers were intertwined. More warmth washed over him, and he hoped it was less obvious than the moment before.

Whether it was or not, House didn't acknowledge it. He let go of Wilson's hand after he was seated at the table and went into the kitchen. He put the container of Miso soup that was in the refrigerator in the microwave, while he removed the metal wire handle from the take out carton of Pad Thai, which he put in the microwave after bringing Wilson his soup.

They sat across from each other and ate in a comfortable silence. The funny part was the way they each kept stealing glances at each other. They were behaving like a couple of shy teenagers who'd just discovered they like each other, instead of two people who'd known each other intimately for twenty years.

Intimately. Wilson thought about the word. Most people took the phrase "being intimate" to refer to sex. Of course it did, but at least in House and Wilson's case, it meant so much more. It was all their time together – arguing over a patient or a TV show or nothing, hanging out eating and laughing, and, now, their time spent making love and touching each other.

It was even their time apart – separated due to anger or guilt or searing hurt on one or both sides, yet still wanting more than anything to find each other again.

"Let's go to bed, Wilson." House's voice broke into Wilson's musings. "You ready?"

"You'll be there, right?" Wilson asked. As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he braced himself for some serious sarcasm.

"You couldn't keep me away," House stated softly, to Wilson's astonishment and happiness.

"Let's go, then."

They went to bed and slept well, together.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Don't Own, etc.

A/N: Sorry this took so long, but at least it's a long-ish chapter. Thanks for continuing to follow this story despite my frequent delays. I appreciate it greatly.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW 

The time passed slowly, but Wilson finally finished his chemo. House had finished his thesis as well, and had completed his defense. As expected, he came through with flying colors, other than making a couple of the professors on his defense committee mad at him when he corrected them. House attributed the anger to their fragile academic egos. Wilson attributed it to the fact that House had most likely called them morons, which, of course, House was unable to deny, especially after Wilson literally teased it out of him. Which House, despite his protests, thoroughly enjoyed.

House was in a rare mood to celebrate, so, at the end of the week, he took Wilson for a lunch date in the dining room of the most luxurious hotel in town. The setting was elegant, and the food was delicious (Wilson could finally enjoy it again), and even House seemed to be on his best behavior. Everything was going beautifully, until House ordered his third martini.

Even though Wilson was feeling much better, he still wasn't allowed to drive. Wilson knew House could drink quite a bit and not become visibly impaired, but breathalyzers didn't go by impairment, they went by the amount of alcohol in the blood. So, at this point, House was risking trouble if they got stopped on the way back to the condo.

When lunch was finished shortly afterward, and House was signing the receipt (he had asked Wilson out, after all), Wilson decided he had to say something.

"House, I don't think you should drive."

"I'm fine, Wilson,"

"You're not. Not really, and it's not your being impaired that I'm worried about, although I should be. What if we get stopped and you have to take a breathalyzer test?"

"We won't get stopped."

"But what if we do?"

"I'll take the test. What's the worst that can happen? A first-time offense is usually a fine and some idiot classes."

"For someone without a record, yes."

"We're past the statute of limitations on the stuff with Tritter." Both men felt some discomfort with the mention of that topic. Wilson moved on quickly.

"True. But it's been less than a year since you were in an early release program, wearing an ankle monitor."

Silence fell between them. Wilson hadn't been happy to remind House of that, and he was sure House wasn't happy to hear it. Unlike most of the time they spent together, he felt the need to fill the quiet with speaking.

"Listen, we can take a cab home, and then you can take a cab back tomorrow to get your car."

"That works," was House's terse reply.

Wilson spoke to the restaurant hostess, who directed them to the front desk of the hotel for assistance. Wilson was all set to ask for a cab when the clerk behind the desk addressed House.

"How was your lunch?"

"Very good."

"I assume you are ready to check in now, Doctor House."

"Yes."

Wilson stood there looking, well, stunned. This was completely unexpected.

House and the clerk proceeded to finish the check-in process and the clerk handed House the room keys.

Wilson snapped back to reality.

"Room 1247. It has a balcony with a lovely view of the surrounding area, although it might be a little chilly up there this time of year," the clerk informed them.

"We can smoke out there, though, right?"

"Yes, Doctor House, and the box of cigars you had delivered has been put in your room, along with your luggage and the bottle of champagne you requested. Is there some special occasion you are celebrating?"

Wilson wondered how House would field that one. House knew that Wilson wouldn't want the entire hotel staff to find out about his cancer, and it wasn't in House's nature to crow about the completion of his PhD.

"Not really," House mumbled.

"So, just a weekend getaway for no reason except to be with each other? How romantic!" the clerk gushed.

Wilson saw the look on House's face and knew he was going to make a very crude remark, most likely something about how there was nothing romantic about it, seeing as how they were going to spend the weekend fucking each other's brains out. The thought made Wilson tingle, but he knew he had to keep his focus and say something first.

"Which way is the room?" Wilson asked quickly, heading House off at the pass.

"Go to the main elevator, take it to the twelfth floor, turn right and then left and it will be on your right."

"Thanks." Wilson hastily added as he grabbed House's elbow and turned him away from the desk and toward the elevators.

"Killjoy," House said as he and Wilson entered the elevator. They were alone, and Wilson didn't give House the chance to make any other comments as his mouth smashed down on House's mouth.

They were making out fiercely when the elevator doors opened. Luckily, the ding was loud enough to get their attention.

They reluctantly separated and headed down the hallway, holding hands. Wilson slid the card key into the slot and they opened the door.

They walked into a suite, with a wide-screen TV on the wall above a fireplace, a couch, two chairs and a coffee table with a box of cigars and a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne sitting it in. There was a small dining table and chairs in the corner. Sliding glass doors opened on to a balcony.

They went through an open door to a separate room, with the same fireplace open on the other side, along with another wide-screen TV over it, and another set of doors opening on to the same balcony. The en-suite bathroom had a whirlpool tub for two, and a shower also large enough for two, with bench seats, and multiple shower heads of different types, including a couple of sprays. The color scheme throughout was dark wood with burgundy and gold - elegant and masculine.

Wilson was obviously impressed, but concerned at the same time. "This must cost a fortune. Can we afford this? Neither of us has been working for a while."

"Oh, stop being such a worrywart. It's November in Princeton, not April in Paris. Besides, it was a package deal."

"How did you manage that?"

"Weekends are slow for most hotels, except for holidays."

"This is a holiday weekend."

"Yeah, imagine all those 'romance packages' they sell for _Veterans' Day_."

"Hmm, Veterans' Day. There's something else, isn't there?"

"What?"

Wilson got an evil smirk on his face. "I'm guessing Veterans' Day was a big deal for your father."

"Yeah, it was," House replied warily.

"And, I'm guessing, he wasn't exactly accepting of gays or homosexual relationships."

"Part of the joy of this relationship with you, Wilson, is knowing the bastard is spinning in his grave."

"Glad to be of service. And, what would be a better way to observe a holiday that meant so much to your late, hated father than to do the thing he abhorred the most and spend the entire weekend enjoying gay _lurve_?"

"I prefer to think of it creating new memories to overcome the bad ones," House sniffed in mock sentimentality.

"Let's get to it then," Wilson whispered softly in House's ear. He took his ear lobe into his mouth and then sucked it softly. He kissed his way down House's neck, listening to the music of House's sighs.

Wilson stopped to remove his tie, shirt and pants. He was in such a hurry his hands were fumbling. His socks and boxers followed. House simply watched and, Wilson noticed, licked his lips every time another article of clothing came off.

Then, he pushed off House's button-down and pulled his t-shirt over House's head. Wilson moved his mouth over House's now exposed collarbone, taking the time to kiss, lick, and nip inside the hollows. He then pushed House backwards on the bed.

As Wilson's busy mouth and tongue made their way down House's chest and abdomen, Wilson's even busier hands had House's belt and pants undone, and pushed off along with his boxers. Wilson lingered just below House's waist, kissing and licking while he managed to remove House's socks.

He stopped and looked at a naked, partially erect House laid out before him like a banquet. He sighed.

He took House's cock into his mouth and began sliding up and down. The grunting and moaning that met his ears were some of the best sounds he had ever heard. It made him happy just knowing what he was doing to House.

After House was fully erect, Wilson paused and spent a few minutes licking House's perineum and then his balls. He hadn't really felt strong enough to do this for a while, and that made the pleasure he was giving his lover that much sweeter.

House's cock was waiving by the time Wilson finished. "Fuck, Jimmy, I need . . . " House's voice trailed off as Wilson took him into mouth again. It didn't take long for House to explode in the back of Wilson's throat. Wilson swallowed all that he could, and licked off the rest.

The look of bliss on House's face when Wilson was finished made him realize just how much he loved House. He somehow managed to get both of them under the covers. Wilson was holding House as he drifted off to sleep on endorphins and what was left of the martinis. Wilson's own need had not been satisfied as yet, but it was waning for now and he had no doubt House would take care of him. House's gentle snoring accompanied him to a restful nap.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

They woke up around seven and ordered dinner off the room service menu. House had already informed Wilson that the only times they were leaving the room were for brunch each morning (mostly because the chambermaid needed a chance to make up the room), and when they went on the balcony to smoke the cigars. Otherwise, it was an all-nude, all-sex weekend.

Wilson questioned what they would do when room service came, but House told him they would stay in the bedroom while the staff set up dinner in the sitting area on the dining table. Which was precisely what happened when dinner arrived.

After they were sure the staff member left, they walked out to the other room and ate their meal in the nude. The champagne was slightly warm at this point, but they drank it anyway. House seemed to have become awfully awkward all of a sudden – he kept dropping food on Wilson and insisting it not go to waste and that he had to clean it up with his mouth and tongue.

A part of Wilson wanted to do the same, but he hesitated. For all his indulgence of his own sexual desires over the years, including when cheated on his wives, he'd never allowed himself to give in to his sensual side. Heck, he wasn't even sure he had one. While he was amazed at the way House could totally give himself over to it, he didn't know if he could ever do the same.

They put the used dishes on the tray and slid the tray outside the room into the hallway. House had found a couple of very plush, warm-looking bathrobes in the closet and offered one to Wilson.

House put on his sneakers and Wilson put on the slippers that House had thoughtfully packed for him, and they headed out to the balcony for cigars.

Wilson continued to ruminate over his most recent discovery, even as House talked on about the football season and how well he was doing with his bookie beating the point spread.

"Wilson, are you even listening to me?"

"Yes, um, no, um . . . "

"What is it?"

"You seem to really want me, House. All of me."

"Yyeess, and?"

"I just don't understand why you do."

"What are you talking about? I love you so of course I want you."

"You make it sound like one naturally follows the other."

"It does, doesn't it?"

"Well, you love your Mom, but you don't want her, do you?"

"God, Wilson. Don't be so incredibly gross."

"The point is that just because you love someone doesn't mean that you want them. Why do you want me, House?"

"Oh, man. There's just no way I can answer this that would not result in my being cut off for days, is there?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm a guy. Even if you say the worst thing you possibly can, I'll be furious for about two hours and then I'll get horny again. Testosterone is a beautiful thing, isn't it?"

House gave Wilson a wicked smile. "Fine. I don't know if I can explain it. You're not boring."

"That's a ridiculous answer. I'm sure you've met many interesting people in your life that you had no desire to screw, not to mention that all your hookers couldn't possibly have been fascinating, either. Hell, you told me you thought Crandall was an idiot and you slept with him anyway."

"He _was_ an idiot. And there's a difference between taking an opportunity for sex when it's offered, or, for that matter, buying it when it's needed, and wanting someone."

"What is the difference?"

"I don't know!"

"Are you saying there is a difference between basic physical desire and emotional desire?"

"Yes. And now you're going to lord it over me that the cold, calculating scientist House actually acknowledged the validity of emotions."

"I'll save that for later. So, you answered the part about what you mean by wanting someone, but you didn't answer the part about why you want me in particular."

"Oh, God, this is just going from bad to worse."

"Come on. Tell me."

"I don't think I can."

"Well, at least tell me why you like me."

"You're intelligent and funny and competent and you get my sense of humor. You're fun to be with and you don't let me get away with a lot of bullshit. You take care of me. And you're sexy as hell."

"I could kind of follow what you were saying until you got to the 'sexy' part. I am definitely NOT sexy."

"What, just because your ex-wives were so needy they didn't notice either the dimples on your cheeks or the ones above your ass, or the depth of your eyes, or how hot you are when you've just woken up and your hair is flopping all over the place or how beautiful your forearms look when you roll up your sleeves, or how long your legs are when you're standing around in your boxers or how amazing the tendons on the top of your feet look when you flex your toes? Or the way your entire body quivers just before you come? And your cock . . . your huge, beautiful, responsive cock . . . "

Wilson was stunned for the second time that weekend. None of his ex-wives or girlfriends had ever called him "sexy." Sure, they seemed to enjoy having sex with him, but he was positive none of them, even Amber, found him anything but cute. Now that he thought about it, he'd never had anyone consider him sexy his entire life.

"Don't bullshit me, House." Wilson's voice had taken on a hard tone. "I'm not an idiot."

"I'm not bullshitting you! Why do you think I called you the Panty-Peeler of Princeton Plainsboro? You could turn on the charm and get pretty much any woman you wanted!"

"That wasn't sexy, that was desperate. I had to actually chase the women I wanted. All you had to do was stand there all dark and brooding and they were falling all over you."

"Seriously? Who?"

"Stacy, Cameron, Cuddy, Honey, the CIA doctor, Kate Milton, Lydia, Domenika, and that's just the women."

"There are men?"

"I saw the way Crandall looked at you, House. He was dying for your approval and attention, and why do you think Nurse Jeffrey was always so hostile to you?"

"Because I'm an asshole?"

"That, and sexual jealousy. Not to mention having your best friend pining over you for years. Face it, House, you exude that sexy, I-don't-give-a-damn-what-anyone-thinks-of-me-rebel-attitude. You're an outsider and a little bit dangerous."

"You can't possibly think that's a good thing."

"Why not?"

"Do you know why I developed that attitude? We were always moving and I couldn't afford to get attached to anyone. I had to be an outsider because I was always the new kid. And, it's not like I got anything at home but being told to be tough. And that was when my father was in a good mood. My childhood wasn't staying in one place, in suburbia, with a normal family and friends I'd known since grade school."

"Is that what you think my childhood was like? Normal, suburban, whatever?"

"Well, you weren't a military brat. You didn't have to be the new kid all the time."

"No, I never got the chance for a makeover. I was just a chubby, near-sighted, academically over-achieving Jewish kid with a baby-face that everyone called a baby until I was a tween, when the kids discovered the word "faggot," which pretty much stuck to me through high school."

"At least your home life was happy."

"Who told you that?"

"Well, you didn't have a parent abusing you and another one looking the other way." House had never openly admitted that to Wilson, but he figured Wilson knew, anyway.

"No, but I did have two parents who treated me like wallpaper. David was the star, and Danny was the troubled one, and I was just, just, there."

"How terrible can that be?"

"How terrible? Imagine that no matter what you did, how good your grades were, how neatly you kept your room, no matter what you tried to do to please your parents, they never noticed you. Only when you were cheering on your older brother or helping your younger brother did they even see you."

"So, that's where the OCD-neatness comes from, and the neurotic need to help."

"Because I'm so one-dimensional, I can be reduced to one or two facts about my childhood."

"There is nothing one-dimensional about you, Wilson. But it does explain your persona – the mask you show the world. Only the people who know you, who love you, get to see anything beyond that."

"A mask for the world and only seeing real person behind the mask if he loves you and lets you in - sounds like someone I know."

"And who would that be?" House smirked as he stubbed out his cigar and then reached for Wilson. His mouth came down on the younger man's and they kissed intensely for a couple of minutes. Wilson broke away.

"What?" House asked, not bothering to mask the frustration in his voice.

"I'm not about to do anything out here and freeze my dick off," Wilson replied, stubbing out his cigar and giving House a slight push so he could get up. He pulled House from the balcony and into the bedroom.

Their footwear came off just inside the door and their bathrobes wound up in a heap on the floor as they kissed and then eased themselves on the bed.

"My turn," House proclaimed.

He pushed Wilson on his back and lay down next to him on his side, with his head at the foot of the bed and his feet near the headboard. He brought his open palm up and down on Wilson's sole. If wasn't a tickle as much as a caress. He stopped and rested the inside of his hand against the bottom of Wilson's foot. It tickled a bit when House began kissing the top of Wilson's foot – not House's lips as much as the stubble.

It was much more, um, stimulating when House began to kiss the bottom of Wilson's foot. This time it was the stubble, plus House would lick as he kissed, drawing his tongue lightly. It was bad enough on Wilson's sole, but when House reached Wilson's toes, he didn't know if he could take it.

He had been keeping his eyes shut tight, but he forced them open, thinking it would make a more effective protest if he were actually looking at House when he made it.

That was when he saw the most astonishing thing. House was finishing up with his feet and was starting to travel up his ankles towards his legs. That felt wonderful of course, but he was astounded by the look on House's face. It was almost, for want of a better word, reverent.

Wilson was tempted momentarily to believe his vision had been affected by the chemo. How could House, the atheist, possibly have a worshipful expression on his face? It took Wilson a moment to realize the look wasn't religious, it was loving. A love that went down deep into the very core of House.

Wilson had no time to think as his body reacted to House's mouth traveling up the inside of his legs. He was jelly by the time House pushed his thighs apart and began to lick his balls.

For Wilson, sex had always been a kind of an out-of-body experience. He maintained his distance and was able to assess his own performance. It made him a skilled lover, but it also made him emotionally detached.

Well, there was nothing out-of-body about this. He was completely present and in the moment. He groaned as he gave himself over to the sensations he was experiencing, as House took him into his mouth.

As House moved up and down on Wilson's cock, his tongue traveled with him, swirling around. He would stop and lick the tip every third or fourth stroke. Wilson felt every movement of House's mouth and tongue. He had never felt anything this good in his entire life.

When House brought his fingers to Wilson's tightening balls and began to tickle, that was it. Wilson exploded in the back of House's throat and cried out in bliss.

House moved up the bed, pulling the blankets with him. He covered them up as he moved Wilson into his arms. One hand went lightly up and down Wilson's back and the other caressed Wilson's face. House placed a series of soft kisses on Wilson's forehead.

Wilson slowly recovered. As he snuggled into House, he thought more about the expression on House's face as he was moving up Wilson's legs and bringing him to climax. It was, Wilson realized, an expression of pure love, the deepest Wilson had ever seen.

It filled Wilson. He wondered briefly if any of House's other lovers had ever seen him this way. He assumed they hadn't, because, if they had, they wouldn't have, couldn't have, left him. Wilson knew, now that he'd seen it, he never could.

Without his being consciously aware of it, Wilson's eyes became a little watery.

"Are you okay?" House asked as he used his thumbs to wipe away the moisture that was leaking out of Wilson's eyes.

"Fantastic," Wilson replied softly. "That was so amazing, House."

"Well, it was one of the better bjs I've given, I'll agree. But it wasn't like getting laid."

Wilson couldn't help but smile. He didn't really care how it compared to other kinds of sex, nor was he really focused on House's oral skills. Not that he hadn't enjoyed them immensely, but it was more than that.

"That's not what I was talking about . . . your face . . . " Wilson's voice trailed off. He knew if he said too much, House would either scoff, become self-conscious or both. It either case, it would ruin things. So, he decided to express himself in the way House was usually able to accept, that is, physically.

He gently moved House's hand from his face and kissed House's forehead. He slowly kissed down his temple, to his cheek, around his chin, back up his cheek to his other temple and back to his forehead. He kissed each of House's eyelids and then his nose, his upper lip, and finished with a soft, long kiss on his mouth.

They briefly rested with their foreheads together. Wilson wondered if House had kept his eyes open while he was kissing him, and, if he had, what expression did Wilson have on his face? He could only hope it had half the depth of feeling House's face had had.

"What brought that on?" House questioned as they settled back down in each other's arms.

"I just . . . I just wanted you to know how much I love your face."

"What, this old thing?" House mocked. "What's really going on, Wilson?"

"Like I said, House, I love your face."

House was certainly aware enough to figure out that wasn't it. Or, at least, it was not all of it. He was also aware that he wasn't good at dealing with emotional stuff. For once, House decided there was a puzzle he didn't need to solve. He let it go in favor of cuddling (yes, he realized to his chagrin, he was actually _cuddling_) with his lover and falling asleep instead.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

In the morning, House awoke to both his own amazement that he had actually slept through the night, and to find Wilson gently massaging his leg. When he asked for an explanation, Wilson said it looked to him like the leg was ready to cramp and he was just trying to avoid that. Anyway, it felt good, and it kept his leg from hurting as much as it usually did in the morning. And, between that, the hot water and the bench seats, they were able to give each other mutually satisfying hand jobs in the shower.

They dressed and left their room to go to brunch. Instead of heading toward the elevators, House took off in the opposite direction, down the hall to the chambermaid standing near her cart outside one of the other rooms. Wilson followed, curious to see what was going on, and to be there to smooth things over, just in case House, as was his wont, managed to piss off the woman they were relying on for the next two days to keep their room from deteriorating into the chaos reeked by a rock band on tour.

As Wilson stood by, he heard House speaking in Spanish. His Spanish had never really been very good. He paid just enough attention in high school to get a decent grade, nothing more. He'd tried to pick it back up by watching telenovellas, but that hadn't worked too well recently. As his brainpower diminished from the chemo, he had a hard enough time following shows in English, let alone Spanish. Now, he wished he'd tried to make more of an effort, because he had no idea what was going on.

If his body language and intonation were any indication, House was being respectful, and even kind. Wilson saw them share a laugh over something House said. Was House flirting? Then Wilson saw House pass a hundred to the maid, who appeared to be thanking him profusely.

Wilson felt the blood drain out of his head. Was House arranging for sex for himself, with Wilson standing right there? Sure, Wilson didn't understand the particulars, but there were some universal behaviors associated with buying sex, and this sure looked like that.

House had always insisted that he was bi, and now, apparently, he'd gotten an itch of the female variety and he was going to scratch it.

And where the hell was Wilson supposed to go? Back to the loft? But House had said they were staying for the weekend. And even though it was a decent-sized suite, Wilson couldn't exactly go somewhere else in the room. Did that mean House expected Wilson to watch? Shit, what if House was arranging a threesome?

Wilson's mind was reeling. He did not want to have sex with some woman he barely knew. Worse, he did not want to watch House have sex with anyone else. Worse still, he did not want anyone else watching while he and House had sex. It was too intimate, too emotional for that.

House was capable of doing some outrageous stuff, but he wouldn't do this, would he? From the expression on House's face when they were together last night, it meant something to House, too. Something profound. Not something to be shared with or seen by anyone else. The anger Wilson was feeling suddenly abated, replaced by warmth.

Wilson had been so deep in thought, he hadn't realized they'd walked back down the hall and were in the elevator heading down to the dining room.

"Where'd you go, Wilson?" House inquired. He seemed relaxed enough.

"I've been right here with you, House." Of course, Wilson was smart enough to know House was talking about Wilson being lost in thought, but he was stalling for time, thinking of a way to broach the subject of House paying the chambermaid without sounding like a jealous, needy housewife.

"Fine," House acknowledged. "I did say his was an all-fuck weekend, so If you don't want to talk, it's okay by me."

Wilson observed that House really didn't seem fine with it. Not that Wilson was assuming House actually cared what Wilson had been thinking about, just that House tended to be petulant when he wanted to know something.

And not that Wilson wasn't burning with curiosity, either. "House, what were you talking about with the chambermaid?"

"You mean all those telenovelas didn't make you fluent in Spanish after all?"

"Chemobrain doesn't lend itself to picking up a second language in your spare time."

"That's over with," House asserted in a rough voice. Wilson had been aware that his chemo had been inconvenient for House. He suddenly realized it had bothered House emotionally, too. House cleared his throat and continued, "I was telling her we'd make it worth her while to clean the room while we were out at breakfast."

"Oh, so that's why you slipped her a hundred."

"Why else, Wilson? Did you think I was arranging a threesome?"

Wilson's blush told House everything he needed to know. How completely ridiculous. He decided some mocking was in order.

At this point, they had been seated in a booth in the dining room of the hotel's café. "Are you _jealous_, Wilson?"

In all honesty, Wilson had been jealous at first. But, that didn't stop him from getting his back up and reacting. "So, what if I were? It's not like you've never been jealous. You broke up two of my marriages and any other relationship I ever had!"

"One by killing your girlfriend," House sneered.

"You did not kill Amber!" Wilson insisted, rather loudly.

"Take it easy, Wilson. You know you blamed me."

"No, I didn't."

"Then why did leave me?" House hated the whiny victim's voice that had just come out of his mouth, but it was too late to take it back.

Wilson was interrupted by the waiter approaching to take their orders. He took their menus and headed towards the kitchen.

"House, I didn't leave you."

"You went away and you made it perfectly clear I couldn't go with you. What do you call that except leaving?"

"It wasn't . . . I didn't mean to . . . " Wilson hesitated. "House, what I did wasn't leaving you. It . . . it was needing to get away from you."

"Oh, well, that makes me feel _so_ much better."

"Damn. That came out wrong. What I meant was, I wasn't leaving you. I was protecting you."

"What the hell were you protecting me from?"

"Me."

"What the fuck, Wilson?"

"I almost killed you. And I almost destroyed your brain."

"You didn't do that."

"I asked you to do something that made those outcomes likely."

"And I agreed."

"Because you were in love with me and you would do anything I asked."

"Yes. But you didn't know that."

"But I had realized that I was in love with you and that I could never risk you like that again. I had to get away from you."

House sat there, stunned. Silence fell between them as the waiter brought their food. They ate the first few bites in silence.

"All that stuff you said about us never being friends . . . ?"

"I know how persistent you are. And I know how weak I am. I had to push you so hard that you would never come back."

"And yet, I did."

Wilson picked up House's hand from the table and rubbed the back of it against the side of his face. He kissed it and put it gently back down on the table, intertwining his fingers and House's. House said nothing but gave Wilson's hand a light squeeze.

"Turns out I was right, anyway," Wilson asserted.

"What? That we were never friends?"

"Yes. I'm afraid I pretended all those years. I just wanted to be with you, and I thought being your BFF was the best I could do."

"But, why did you push me towards Cuddy?"

"I thought you loved Cuddy and that would make you happy. Until Lucas came along."

"At that point, you must have thought I didn't have a chance with Cuddy, so why did you start dating Sam, then?"

"There you were, living with me, watching TV and playing your video games, playing music, eating my food, stumbling around in the morning with your hair sticking up all over the place, making a mess, and walking around naked. God, I wanted you _so_ much. I almost got carpal tunnel dealing with the tension. I knew I had to do something to distract myself."

"And you picked _Sam_ as a distraction?"

"I don't know that I would have if she hadn't friended me."

"Damn Facebook. Still, you're not stupid, Wilson. You had to know somewhere in that addled brain of yours it was a terrible idea."

"I think I did. But, it also made sense, in a way."

"In what utterly delusional way was that?"

"I think, without realizing it, I was trying to go back to the way my life was before I knew you. Sure it was boring and dull, but at least it didn't hurt so damn much. At least my every waking moment wasn't spent wanting something I thought I couldn't possibly have."

"And I wanted Cuddy, thinking she was my only chance at happiness because I couldn't have you. I self-destructed when she left me because I believed I could never be happy again. And all because I thought the person I really wanted was even more unattainable."

"We're a couple of complete idiots."

"Two of the biggest morons to have ever walked the planet."

"There ought to be two huge red 'L's for 'Loser' tattooed to our foreheads."

"Yep. Two complete fuck-ups."

As they berated themselves, they had been leaning towards each other. Their lips met for a long, slow kiss, which began tenderly and increased in intensity.

They broke when they heard the sound of a throat clearing. The waiter smirked at them as he handed them the bill and left. House added it to the room.

"Do you think the chambermaid is done yet, House?"

"She'd better be, or I'm going to demand a threesome."

Wilson had a huge grin on this face as House led him by the hand up to their made-up room.

"Worth every penny," was all Wilson was able to remark before House had them both stripped naked. Wilson was lying on his back on the bed.

"I want you." House growled, his desire plain.

Wilson felt a shiver go up his spine and his cock stiffen. It got even stiffer as House attacked Wilson's mouth. He opened in response and their tongues tangled.

Wilson closed his eyes as House left Wilson's mouth and worked his way around Wilson's throat and collarbone, kissing, nipping and otherwise scraping his skin with his stubble, which felt incredible. Wilson should be used to the feeling by now, but he wasn't. And he secretly hoped he never would be.

House was encouraged by Wilson's sighs and small cries. He continued to travel over his chest, spending some time on the scar. House loved that scar because it meant Wilson chose to live. And the reason was because he loved House.

He proceeded down Wilson's torso, also spending time kissing the scar from Wilson's liver surgery. He also nipped the area a tiny bit, just to express to Wilson that his liver donation to Self-Important Jerk still annoyed him. Wilson was too far gone at this point to notice the subtle rebuke.

He reached Wilson's hipbones. During the height of the chemo they had been rather prominent, and House hadn't wanted to touch them for fear of irritating the taut skin. Thankfully, Wilson had put on some weight and the skin had plumped up a bit. So House feasted on them, kissing and sucking.

He kissed down until he reached Wilson's cock and took it in his mouth. He didn't plan on another blow job - he just wanted Wilson to be on the edge when he entered him.

While House' mouth was taking Wilson in and out, and Wilson was quietly moaning, House was also working Wilson's entrance. When Wilson was open enough, House stopped his ministrations to Wilson's penis, applied some lube, and maneuvered himself carefully over Wilson's body.

Wilson's quiet "Fuck me, Greg," was all House needed to hear to know it was time to enter him.

House wondered if he would ever get used to the utter bliss it was to be inside Wilson. Wilson's eyes were black and shiny with desire, and his moans were now loud and punctuated with cries in the rhythm of House's rocking in and out of Wilson's body. House's hand worked Wilson's cock in the very same rhythm.

When House began hitting Wilson's prostate, Wilson needed to come, badly, but he was also trying to hold out until House came inside him, because that feeling always made Wilson's orgasm more intense. Wilson looked down to see not only the hot visual of House moving in and out of him, but the tensing of House's abdominal muscles, so he knew House was close.

House cried out "Jimmy!" as he came, and the feeling of House's semen filling him up inside made Wilson explode in bliss. House collapsed on top of Wilson and stayed there, their sweat co-mingling and Wilson's cum between them. Wilson put his arms around House and pulled him in a tight embrace as they came down.

They fell asleep holding each other.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

They woke up late in the afternoon, cleaned themselves up a bit and ordered room service. Just like the previous evening, they ate in the nude at the little table in the sitting area and had cigars on the balcony in their robes.

They came in, but they weren't ready to go to sleep yet, since it was still early. They were sitting up in up in bed, and House reached for the remote, turned on the TV over the fireplace and began flipping through the channels. He hoped to avoid any more talking, as he had found the last two days quite emotional enough, thank you.

Unfortunately, given the limited channels on the hotel TV, there was only news, home improvement and cooking shows, a bad movie from the 90s, and a college football game featuring two Western teams that were so obscure House's bookie didn't even cover them.

He left the game on low volume in the background and anticipated another "talk" with Wilson, which came soon enough, although its topic surprised him.

"House, I was wondering, what happened to you in prison?"

"I ate terrible food, I slept with one eye open, I chafed under the regimentation and I got in trouble for my methods diagnosing a patient. Exactly the same as when I was with Cuddy."

Wilson ignored House's attempt at humor. "No one hurt you?"

"Why would that matter now?"

Wilson noted the lack of denial. "Well, if you got raped, it could have a significant impact on our sex life."

"By making you all horny thinking about it?"

"Of course not! I meant, by making you reluctant to have sex with a man."

"Do I seem reluctant at all to you, Wilson?"

"So, does that mean they didn't get you?"

"Do we have to talk about this now?"

"There's a better time?"

"Ask me when you have me hogtied on the bed against my will."

"Given our relative strengths, not likely to happen."

"I'm a weak cripple."

"Bullshit. You may not have two fully functioning legs, but there is nothing weak about you, House."

"Except my willpower around you."

"Like mine is so strong around you? And nice attempt at changing the subject."

"Damn. Well, it was worth a shot. Again, why do we have to talk about this?"

"I think it's important. I think we need to deal with this."

"Fine."

"So, what happened?"

"You want me to just, just . . . "

"Just what?"

"Blurt it out?"

"Um, yeah."

"Out in the open like that?"

"I'm not asking you to give a powerpoint presentation with charts, graphs, pictures and video to an auditorium of 500 people, House. It's just me."

"It would be easier to do the presentation."

"What? Why?"

"Everyone else already thinks I'm an asshole."

"Sometimes, I do, too. And?"

House snorted at Wilson's honesty. Then he paused, bracing himself for Wilson's reaction as he said the rest. "With anyone else, there's nothing to lose."

Wilson was taken aback by that statement, although he immediately realized he shouldn't be. House didn't care what the world thought, unless they were part of the criminal justice system, and then, only as it related to his guilt or innocence. But, House did care very much what the people close to him thought. And House's admission reminded Wilson that House considered Wilson to be the closest of all.

While that made him happy, it also made him realize he had to be very careful in the way he handled this. Too much pushing and House not only wouldn't tell him now, he most likely would never tell him. And that was bad for so many reasons.

Wilson's realized he had to reassure House that nothing he could say would make Wilson upset. Well, that wasn't entirely true. If anything had happened, Wilson would be sorry that anyone hurt his lover and angry that no one stopped it, but he'd have to not show it. House would mistake his sorrow for pity and think the anger was directed at House for allowing it.

Why had he brought this up, again? Maybe he should just let it go. That would certainly be the easiest thing. Even though Wilson's marriages had ended because he was too detached, the opposite was true with House. He'd keep nagging to find out more and more, especially anything that House didn't want to talk about. And that wasn't always the best thing for the relationship.

"You know what, you're right. I shouldn't be pushing. Forget I asked."

"You mean you don't want to know?"

"Of course I want to know, but that really isn't the point, is it?"

"What is the point then?"

"That you either want to tell me or you don't. And I can't change it if you don't."

"True."

There was pause as House processed this. It was too easy for things to be resolved this quickly.

"So, if I don't tell you what happened, it'll be okay?"

"I doubt it, but that's up to you."

"That is so unfair. You just want to manipulate me into telling you."

"No, it's not about manipulation."

"Why the hell did you say that, then?"

"I'm just reminding you of reality of the situation."

"Which is what?"

"That avoiding painful topics can and will come back to bite you in the ass, and now that I'm in a relationship with you, it'll get both of us."

"Because you _care_ about me?" House questioned mockingly.

"Yes. And also because it's such a rich source of misunderstandings for a couple."

"What does that mean?"

"This is about sexual violence, isn't it?"

"Yes," House reluctantly agreed.

"In particular, homosexual sexual violence."

"So?"

"So, we are a male-male couple, which means we are having gay sex."

"Yes." House growled, gritting his teeth, and letting Wilson know he wanted him to get to the point, quickly.

"Any time we have sex, and I don't know what happened, there is the potential that I'll do something to trigger some unpleasant memory for you, which is bad enough. What makes it worse is that you won't tell me why you are upset, and I'll likely misinterpret it as something about me, which will either make me mad, or fearful that I'm hurting you. In either case, it won't be healthy for our relationship. And, if that keeps happening, well, it won't be good."

"Is that a threat?"

"No, House, it's a fact, and you know it."

There was silence House thought about what Wilson had said.

House finally spoke. "I don't think it will be a problem."

"How can you know that?" Wilson questioned.

House took a deep breath. "You know how saying someone is a tight-ass is usually a put down?"

"Yes, but what does that – "

"In my case being a literal tight-ass saved me from, well . . . " House's voice trailed off.

For once in his life, Wilson did the smart thing and kept his mouth shut, simply waiting for House to continue.

"Believe it or not, I really tried to keep a low profile when I was in there. No mouthing off to the guards, trying to keep neutral with all the gangs . . . anyway, the problem was that it didn't take long for my fellow prisoners to find out I had regular access to some goodies, namely, Vicodin. So, I became very popular, despite my efforts to stay under the radar. And by 'popular,' I mean the favorite target of anyone who wanted what I had - mood-altering drugs. So, I was beaten up a few times. Usually, it was just the beating, but, once . . . " House took a deep breath.

Wilson was already upset by what House had told him, but, sadly, he wasn't surprised. Everyone knew what went on in prisons, and Wilson had suspected that House, being handicapped, would be a target, regardless of whether or not he had access to drugs. It was the stuff of Wilson's nightmares for all those long months House was there. But, there was more? Wilson braced himself.

House was looking off in the corner of the room. "I usually wound up giving the Vicodin to the head of one gangs. Apparently, there was a power struggle going on, not that there wasn't usually. Anyway, the head of the rival gang got to me first, roughed me up and took the Vicodin. When the leader of the other gang came by later, I didn't have it. And he was royally pissed."

"Couldn't he see you were beaten up? That someone had forcibly taken it away from you?"

"The whole place was about forcible, Wilson. Do you think he cared about what had happened to me? He wanted his drugs and I didn't have them, and not only was he pissed about that, if he wanted to keep his reputation, he had to make an example of me."

"What did he do?"

He and a couple of his lieutenants visited my cell. My cellmate somehow knew to be elsewhere. They pushed me down on the floor on my stomach. They pulled down my pants, and one held me down while the other started to finger my ass. He was trying to work me open – "

"To rape you?" Wilson asked. He hated the quavering of his voice and hoped House hadn't heard it and thought he was pitying him.

House was too involved in the memory to notice Wilson's reaction. "That wasn't what they were trying to do."

"What . . . "

"You must have heard of fisting, Wilson."

Wilson was shocked enough not to be able to speak. He gave a slight affirmative nod.

"Yeah, well, because I hadn't been with anyone for a long time, I was pretty tight. He was working on me when a couple of guards came by. They had to stop and then they took off. I managed to get my pants up and to roll over on my back. When the guards asked why I was on the floor, I told them my leg gave out. I was pretty convincing since, by then, it was hurting like a son-of-a-bitch, what with laying on the concrete floor and the guy leaning on it when he held me down."

"So, so," Wilson stammered. "They weren't able to . . . "

"Nope. And, unless you plan on fisting me at some point, there shouldn't be a problem," House said, trying a little too hard to sound casual.

Wilson was, for want of a better word, stunned. He'd suspected that House might have been raped in prison (and he still didn't know whether that had actually taken place), but this was even worse. Wilson thought of House's pain and terror and helplessness and humiliation.

And Wilson knew the last thing he could do was express any sympathy. For one thing, he could imagine how it felt, but he had no idea what it was really like. Second, he knew House would take it as pity. So, he hesitated.

Naturally, House felt Wilson withdraw. Damn it. He knew he shouldn't have told him. Now Wilson was going to see once again how hopelessly damaged he was. If Wilson had any sense at all, he'd run screaming in the opposite direction.

As the seconds ticked on, House felt the knot in his stomach clench tighter and tighter. Wilson must be repulsed by the situation, and House couldn't say as he blamed him. He'd tried so hard to make this a celebration of Wilson's official remission and his completing his thesis, and it had been genuinely fun surprising him. And the sex had been frequent, intense and loving.

And it was all ruined now. And so was their relationship, as far as House could tell. Who would want to be with someone as screwed up and deeply scarred as he was? Even Wilson had to have his limits, and House felt like he had finally exceeded them.

House had a leaden weight where his heart had been. "I'm just going to go now."

"You're going back to the loft?" Wilson asked, completely puzzled.

"I'm not going back there," House informed him.

"Hitting a bar or something, first?"

"I'm not going back at all."

"What? What are you talking about? You're leaving?" Wilson couldn't bring himself to say that House was leaving him. "Where are you going to go? Your apartment has been sub-let."

"Does it matter?"

"What kind of an idiotic question is that?"

"What?"

"Why wouldn't I want to know where you are?"

"Because . . . because I disgust you. You'll be happier when I'm gone."

"Why the hell would you think that?"

"I just told you a horrible thing. Something that makes your skin crawl. That makes you want to turn away from me in disgust – "

"No!"

"Then why aren't you rushing to comfort me with empty platitudes like you always do?" House snarked. His voice was whisper-soft when he asked, " Why won't you touch me?"

Wilson realized his holding back due to his fear of saying the wrong thing and not wanting to invade House's physical space had made House think Wilson was rejecting him. Wilson knew it hurt House to relive what happened, and now he was being hurt even more believing that Wilson's lack of reaction meant revulsion.

A tiny cry escaped Wilson's throat, and he pulled House toward him. In a frenzy, he kissed every available bit of skin that came anywhere near his mouth – House's lips, and cheeks and eyelids and nose, the shells of his ears and the lobes, his neck and throat, all along his collarbone, shoulders, and chest. And Wilson's hands stroked every bit of skin his mouth couldn't reach. House's belly and back, ass and thighs, calves, shins and feet.

All those years ago when Wilson had told Cuddy that House was autistic, he'd meant that House seemed to be easily overwhelmed by human contact and avoided it. At the time, Wilson didn't realize it was because of childhood abuse, as well as the impact of every emotional disappointment House had suffered.

What Wilson had thought was an inability to connect physically or emotionally was simply House protecting himself. When he felt safe, House was open to nearly anything, including touch with intense emotion behind it. His openness was so beautiful it took Wilson's breath away.

Since Wilson wasn't able to protect House while he was in prison, he wanted to let House know he would do it now. He could only hope using his body to convey this made House feel safe and loved.

The tiny whimpers coming from House were a good indication Wilson was having the effect he wanted. House's erection was most likely another clue. Well, maybe not, but why not take advantage of a good thing?

Wilson reached for the lube, put some on his finger and reached for House's cock.

"No," House insisted in a husky voice.

"What?" Wilson asked, surprised by House's reaction. After all this talk about what House went through in prison, Wilson thought the last thing House would want was to be reminded of it by being the one to bottom out. "Don't you want to - ?"

"I want someone inside me who isn't trying to scare me or hurt me . . . Right now, I need to feel what it's like when someone . . . " House hesitated, and then said in a tiny voice " . . . loves me."

Something pulled so hard in Wilson's chest, he almost came apart. For a brief moment he wondered how it was possible to love someone so much. Which made his need to show it the most powerful thing he had ever felt.

Wilson applied the lube on his finger to his own penis, and then got more for House. He gently moved his legs apart and found his opening. He applied the lube lightly, almost caressing House. The House's moan was confirmation that Wilson was pleasing him. The moaning continued as Wilson gently eased his fingers inside.

Even after all that, and House's erection becoming massive, Wilson still hesitated at House's entrance.

"Please, Jimmy," House begged.

Wilson eased himself inside and everything else faded away as he moved in and out while stroking House's cock. There was only the two of them and the pleasure they were giving each other, and the intense emotions passing between them.

Their climaxes approached slowly, which was fine with both of them. There was a part of each of them that never wanted these feelings to end. They were awash in the deepest emotions they had ever experienced, and protected by the safety they granted each other. It was desire and connection and comfort and, well, bliss.

House came first, exploding over his own abdomen and Wilson's. Wilson was pretty far gone, but, even so, he heard House cry out, "Jimmy!" and it was enough to put him over the edge. He called out, "Greg!" and he shot deep inside House.

Neither of them remembered the next few minutes. They were in each other's' arms, floating, pain-free and so close to each other. And not just physically. The emotional connection was profound. House pulled Wilson's head into this chest, just to make sure Wilson couldn't see the tear sliding down his cheek. He smiled when he asked Wilson why his chest felt wet and Wilson insisted it was because his nose was running.

Wilson had moved his head to rest on House's shoulder and he was stroking House's chest. "So, are you still going to leave?"

"Nope," House replied. "That sex is way too hot to give up."

"Glad you've stopped being an idiot," Wilson snarked back. In contrast to their harsh, uncaring words, Wilson placed the softest of kisses on House's lips, which House returned with the utmost tenderness.

They settled in, but neither of them was in the mood to sleep. This worried House because he feared another "discussion." Well, part of loving Wilson was dealing with his need to examine every feeling from every conceivable angle. House was willing to live with it, especially if it led to the kind of sex they'd just had.

"House," Wilson began, and House braced himself. "Can you promise me one thing?"

"What," House drawled, trying to feign sleepiness. It didn't work.

"That you won't leave me."

"I thought you wanted me to go."

"Just so we're clear, I _never_ want you to go."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"Why?"

"You may not want a guy who becomes so obsessed he drives his car through his ex-girlfriend's dining room and injures his best friend in the process."

"You didn't injure me on purpose. In fact you tried to protect me by making me get out of the car."

"Well, you can't justify the car-through-dining-room-wall part."

"Actually, you're right about that. I can't explain it. It was so unlike you to do that."

"Really?"

"Of course. How many patients' family members have committed violence against you, and you never even protected yourself? Hell, Cuddy and Lucas both assaulted you and you just took it."

"You think I'm a wimp."

"No, I think for all your troublemaking you're actually a pacifist. No doubt in reaction to the violence of the abuse from John, but, still not a person who lashes out physically. Hence, why I was so shocked by what you did."

"It was wrong, Wilson."

"I know that. But, that still doesn't explain why you did something so out of character."

"You said yourself she botched up the break-up."

"Yes, but I thought you'd gotten a lot of the sense of betrayal out of your system. You'd had that binge at the hotel, and been a moron and jumped off that balcony," House could feel Wilson shudder at the memory and pulled him a little bit closer, "You'd even done the sham marriage with Domenika, and invited Cuddy to rub her nose in it."

"Yes?"

"Well, I thought you'd released a lot of the anger by the time you did it. I thought you were at least heading toward acceptance."

"I was. I even told Cuddy that."

"Then what? Did something happen between you when she brought you to the hospital when you cut open your leg?"

"We didn't talk much then, she was in objective doctor mode, which was just as well. On the way to the hospital, I didn't even sit with her. I sat in the back seat with Rachel. It made me realize I missed the kid, but it wasn't anything traumatizing."

Wilson smiled inwardly at the thought that House had missed Rachel. He knew that House had a soft spot in his heart for kids, despite all his protestations to the contrary. But, he didn't want to bring that up now and get off track. He filed it away for future reference.

"So, it wasn't that."

"No, it wasn't."

"What, then?"

"I already told you."

"Then tell me again."

"After I was better from the surgery, I was walking around the hospital and she, she . . . cornered me."

"Did she hit you or hurt you?" Wilson wanted to sound detached to keep from getting House upset, but he couldn't keep all the emotion out of his voice. He hoped he'd kept his anger at least somewhat in check.

If it bothered House, he didn't show it, as he kept on. "It wasn't anything physical. She got me to admit to her that I was hurt, that she hurt me."

"What was the point of that?"

"I don't know. When it happened, I thought she was actually trying to make me confront my feelings. That she'd thought my saying I was trying to move on wasn't honest. Or something."

"More like the selfish bitch got off on making you admit she still had power over you."

"It didn't seem like that at the time."

"Whether it was or not, if that wasn't how it felt to you, then you shouldn't have become so violent. I still don't understand."

"I stayed away from her after that. Then, that day when you were over, I found that ratty brush she had left."

"Did she actually use that? It looked pretty bad."

"It was probably an old brush she didn't mind leaving at my place."

"Well that was a strong statement of commitment - her unwillingness to shell out ten bucks to buy a brush to leave at your apartment." Wilson snarked. "You should have just tossed it out."

"With 20-20 hindsight, yes," House agreed. "Anyway, as a gesture of I-don't-know-what, maybe trying to get along, I decided to bring it back to her. So, we drive over there, I park and go up the driveway to her front door. I look in the dining room window and there she is with her sister, brother-in-law and some guy who is obviously her date. Laughing and flirting and having just a marvelous time. I became enraged . . . I . . . I snapped. And you know the rest."

"Why were you so upset?" Wilson had an idea, but he wanted House to tell him what he felt.

"I didn't know why when it happened. I didn't know for a while because I was in a fog. I didn't really think about it until I was in prison. I think I felt humiliated. Like I'd given her my soul and she'd just decided she didn't like it and tossed it aside. Like a couch with upholstery you think you like in the store, but, after you've had it home for a while and decided it really doesn't fit in the room, you get rid of it and get something else. I don't think I was mad as much as I was hurting so badly. I felt like Cuddy was my last chance to be happy and she was just pushing me aside because, because I didn't go with her favorite chair or I clashed with the color her walls were painted or something."

Wilson was silent. He knew it shouldn't, but the depth or House's feelings still surprised him sometimes.

House continued. "The longer I thought about it, the more stupid my behavior seemed. I should have known she wasn't capable of any kind of commitment. She'd broken off her engagement with Lucas to be with me the morning after the crane collapse. At the time, I thought it was a demonstration of how much she loved me – being willing to give up a sure thing to take a chance on me. I later figured out that it was more like a problem with her attention span – I was the next new, shiny object to grab her attention. And so was her date that day."

"You shouldn't feel stupid. She exploited you. She took advantage of you when you were lonely and vulnerable, and she used sex to manipulate you and to try to change you into something she wanted you to be. She tossed you out without a second thought when you relapsed, knowing, as a physician, that addicts relapse. She also didn't see . . . " Wilson hesitated. He was about to say something very emotional and he didn't know how House would react.

"What?"

"She didn't see your relapsing for what it was – an act of love."

"Wilson, that makes no sense. How can you possibly say my becoming a junkie again was an act of love. It was an act of weakness! I was so scared of losing her – "

"Precisely. You threw away almost two years of sobriety, and risked losing your mind again, all because you loved her so much you couldn't deal with the thought of anything happening to her."

"But it was completely dysfunctional!"

"True, but that doesn't make it any less loving."

There was a pause while House tried to understand what Wilson was saying. It was difficult for him to see it any other way than his behavior being completely wrong. It was his go to position from the time he was a child. As John had often told him, he was a fuck-up and he always would be. And, it wasn't like his life since then had made him feel otherwise.

Wilson noticed his struggle. "House, I've nagged you for years to give up the Vicodin, so I'm not saying it was a good thing that you relapsed. What I am saying is that you didn't do it to hurt anyone, and that you did it to cope, albeit badly, with an incredibly stressful situation."

"And that makes me different than any other addict, how, exactly?"

"It doesn't. What makes you different is why. Most people relapse because they can't handle what is happening to _them_. You relapsed because of what was happening to someone else."

"But it was because it affected me – "

"Everything in our lives affects us in some way. This wasn't that – it was your terror about what you thought was happening to Cuddy."

"I still don't – "

"Dammit, House! You threw away your sobriety to be with her. To be what she wanted you to be. I've loved you for twenty years and you've never done that for me! Not that I deserve it, I'm not saying that. I, I'm just jealous, I guess. She's with you less than a year and she gets so much of you that you're willing to throw your life away and I'm around for all that time and . . . "

"Don't"

"What?"

"Just don't"

"House?"

"You don't want me to resent Amber, so don't you dare resent Cuddy. You pushed me to be with her. I don't know why, except your fear that you might love me yourself, and in your Jewish, heterosexual, perfect world that wasn't allowed so - " House noticed Wilson's slight wince, so he knew he was right. "So, I went to her and transferred all my feelings for you on to her. And I became so desperate, so pathetic . . . I thought that if she died or left me, I'd die, too. And she didn't die, but she left me because the way I chose to cope with what I thought was her death sentence wasn't, didn't meet her standards. Her fucking standards. John's fucking standards. I could never meet . . . "

"Stop," Wilson said softly. "This isn't a test and there aren't right answers."

"Yes there are."

"With a diagnosis, yes. With treatment, most of the time, yes. But with life, not so much. And you know that."

"And it shouldn't be that way."

"And yet, it is."

"How do you deal with that?"

"Badly. I pissed away decades denying myself the love of my life, and then I almost died and realized I was an idiot."

"I know the feeling."

Wilson smiled. "I'm alive, you're alive, I'm here, you're here – "

"We're here and we're queer! We're here and we're queer!"

Wilson's laughter bubbled out. "It's about time we fucked again, isn't it?"

House gave him a wicked smile.

The rest of the weekend was given over to playful, loving sex. They stayed another day at the hotel and checked out late Monday morning. They even managed to have sex twice more that day after they returned home to the loft. It was an amazing weekend and it fortified them for the major changes they were about to make in their lives.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I realized I hadn't updated in a while, and then I checked the date - it can't have been January, can it?! Well, here's a longish chapter. I hope you enjoy. Oh, and besides the Remains of the Day references, points to anyone who can get the pop music reference as well. Here's a hint: it has to do with House's new boss.

* * *

Disclaimer: In spite of my abiding love for House and for Wilson, they are not mine.

Thanksgiving was fast approaching. Wilson had wanted to cook, but House thought Wilson wasn't really strong enough yet to prepare an entire meal, especially given his perfectionist tendencies, so House wanted to go to a restaurant. Wilson simply couldn't abide not being at home for the holiday, and vetoed the idea. He convinced House by reminding him they wouldn't have many leftovers if they ate out.

House convinced Wilson to get the meal as take out from a restaurant by promising that he could make a couple of side dishes, which actually wound up being one dish that Wilson made and one that House made. Wilson didn't protest sharing the cooking, especially when he realized House was right that he couldn't handle being in the kitchen for hours just yet.

So, they bought most of the dinner and made something together. House was enjoying himself too much to notice the metaphor, and Wilson simply kept it to himself and smiled when he thought of it.

They had invited Chase and Wilson had encouraged him to bring a date. Instead of either a hot babe or a hot guy, Chase surprised them by bringing Park. House questioned why she wasn't spending the day with her family, until she reminded him that Thanksgiving was hardly a traditional Korean holiday.

Chase let slip that they'd be spending the evening with Park's grandmother, which prompted all sorts of intensely probing and awkward questions from House. Chase was pissed off at first, but since Park seemed to just roll with it, Chase decided to let it go. Mostly - he did get in a few decent shots about House being in no position to comment about another person's unusual relationships.

The food was good and House and Wilson had leftovers for several days, which worked out well because they were focused on other things and didn't want to cook. They both had interviews in the Boston area the first week of December. There was an opening on the staff at Mass General for a pediatric pulmonologist that Wilson was vying for, and House had been asked to talk to the head of the physics department at MIT regarding the setting up of a lab that House would run.

The process would take two days and was scheduled for Tuesday and Wednesday. They could have taken a quick flight, but they had decided to drive. (House hated the jostling his leg got on a plane, not to mention what a hassle it was to deal with security when it came to his cane.)

It was only five hours on the road, but with walking breaks for House and potty breaks for Wilson, the actual trip was going to take quite a bit longer than that. (Wilson had been drinking a lot of water since the end of the chemo treatments, in an effort to "flush" the chemicals out of his system. House thought it was pointless, but since it was only water and not anything harmful, he'd decided not to try to stop it, with only minimal mocking of what seemed to him was Wilson's now near-constant need to pee.) There were also breakfast and lunch breaks.

To House's delight, they spent a decent chunk of the driving time listening to music - House's i-pod, thank goodness – no Seventies pop that Wilson liked and that made House literally cringe. Of course, House did include one playlist of showtunes just to bust on Wilson - as House put it, "so he could experience the thrill of living the stereotype." Wilson busted back by providing a lusty rendition of each song.

Actually, House didn't mind that. Wilson had a good voice, and he looked positively adorable singing his heart out. House had come to the conclusion, after resisting it for decades, that he found adorable sexy, at least in Wilson's case. House continued to exercise his sarcasm muscles by making snarky comments, which just pushed Wilson to sing even more, which just made him sexier in House's mind.

After a while, House was forced to turn off the music, because he knew if they kept going, he'd find himself pulling into the nearest rest stop, stripping them both naked, having hot, wild man-sex and most likely getting them both arrested for public lewdness.

When they gave the music a rest, they were silent for a time. (House reminded Wilson that he needed for his throat to recover and not be irritated for any activities in their hotel room that night.) But Wilson, being Wilson, couldn't sustain that for long.

"It's a shame we're traveling up here at this point in the season," Wilson remarked.

"You mean because the Patriots lost so many games so early they have no chance at the playoffs, so there's no point in getting tickets to a game?" House inquired.

"Well, that, and the leaves are well past peak at this point," Wilson noted.

"Leaves?"

"The drive would have been nicer if the leaves had been at peak color."

"Seriously? Are you saying you want to go leaf-peeping? There are seventy-five-year-olds who would consider themselves too young for that. You're such a total nerd."

"And you love me for it."

Well, there was no disputing that. It was that adorable thing again. House felt himself reacting in his nether regions and attempted to diminish it by dismissing the idea, and hoping Wilson would change the subject.

"What difference does it make? If we're going to be living up here, we'll get an entire season of stupid leaves."

"True. _If _we both do well on these interviews."

"I wouldn't worry about that."

"Why not?"

"One, it doesn't actually help to get the job, two, it increases your stress hormones and that is potentially harmful."

"You mean, it might give me cancer?" Wilson joked dryly.

House said nothing and simply reached over and grabbed Wilson's hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed the back of it several times.

Wilson was deeply touched by the gesture, although he could never admit it without making House terribly uncomfortable and without getting seriously mocked for it, so he said nothing and gently squeezed House's hand in acknowledgement.

"Well, if worrying doesn't help get the job, what does?" Wilson questioned.

"Reputation and connections."

"What does that mean?"

"Wilson, you've been the head of a department of a nationally-renowned hospital for ten years. You are one of the best oncologists in the country."

"But, I'm not interviewing for a job in Oncology."

"No, you're going for a specialty that's mindless in comparison. After you've diagnosed and treated a pleomorphic xanthroastrocytoma, how hard can it be to pass out inhalers to wheezy kids in the waiting room?"

"Thanks for all the respect for my new specialty, House."

"Don't worry about my disdain. I'm sure you won't get bored because you'll get all sympathetic over the kids to keep yourself interested, and I won't be there to mock you."

"Does that bother you?"

"No. I should have sufficient opportunities to mock you at home. In-between the hot sex."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I meant, will you miss working with me?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"The only reason I needed to work with you was to see you every day. You know, when I thought you only wanted to be friends. Now that I get to sleep with you, to hold you . . . "

House stopped speaking abruptly and was turning a rather lovely shade of pink, and Wilson was thoroughly enjoying it. However, Wilson knew if he said anything, House would just shut down and never say anything so adorable again. And Wilson loved adorable House too much to let that happen, so he picked up the topic again.

"You said 'connections.' What 'connections'?"

"You don't think Foreman, most of your staff and any colleagues you've worked with at other hospitals didn't write glowing letters of recommendation?"

"That's more professional courtesy than connections. Or did you mean 'connections' when it came to your interview?"

"Well, you know that between my personality and my fucking up my life royally, there'll be no glowing recommendations for me from other doctors. Anyway, I'm not really worried about not getting the new job because of the source of the funding for the lab."

"What about it?"

"Do you remember that Senator who I thought had AIDs?"

"You mean Senator Wright? That was a while ago."

"A fail at an old relationship, a shooting, a new team, a nervous breakdown, a fail at an even older relationship, and prison time ago, yes."

Wilson really didn't want to deal with any of that history at the moment, so he pulled House back to the topic again, "What about him?"

"Well, apparently he left politics, made a mint and has kept in with Foreman."

"Continue."

"He also has a nephew on his wife's side with Sickle Cell."

"And?"

"Well, unlike most politicians, he does a lot of reading and thinking, and he's come up with this idea to use nanotechnology on a cellular level to treat and possibly cure Sickle Cell."

"Is that even possible?"

"Nanotechnology is so new, we have no idea what's possible."

"And this is the guy who's funding your research?"

"He's the primary source. Foreman, surprisingly enough, got a couple of old rich white people to kick in something as well."

"Why is that surprising?"

"Foremen is a black dude in a position of power."

"So?"

"I guess you weren't paying attention to the last Presidential election when all those rich old white people got so freaked out by a powerful black guy."

Wilson acknowledged House's comment with a small smile. "So, you're saying that if the University wants this lab – "

"And the grant money, the chance to employ a lot of post docs and researchers and the prestige of having work on cutting edge technology being performed on their campus - "

"They'll have to take you, too."

"Without me, there's no lab or anything else."

"I knew the Senator was grateful, but, wow . . . "

"It wasn't just the pol, it was Foreman."

"Yeah, now that you mention it, why wouldn't he want to bring the research to Princeton Plainsboro?"

"Medical technology is a little outside the hospital focus, plus I think he really wanted me out."

"Why?"

"My guess is that if I were there, even if I were working somewhere else, he'd be afraid I'd get pulled back into diagnostics. So, it was me or Chase, and Chase is almost as good as I am, but without the insanity."

"Chase is no poster child for normal - he has plenty of issues."

"True, but I don't see him checking himself in to a mental hospital with vicodin-induced delusions anytime soon, or ramming his car into an ex's dining room."

"I suppose not."

There was a pause.

"So," Wilson continued, "You have no stress because your job is a sure thing, but the pressure's totally on me."

"No, I told you, you're the one with the reputation and recommendations."

"It's not a lock, though."

"I think it's pretty close."

"What makes you say that?"

"You don't think Foreman is pulling every string he possibly can to get you in there?"

"Why would he do that?"

"To make damn sure I stay the hell away from his hospital and his diagnostic department."

"And he knows you'll follow me like a puppy that smells bacon."

"Thanks."

"But, I still don't understand. If he's so invested in the success of his diagnostic department, wouldn't he still want you there?"

"It's not just curing patients. As I said, he wants that plus less of the crazy. He wants to show he's a better administrator than Cuddy because he can get the results without the chaos."

"Wow, he's even more obsessive-compulsive than I am."

"Hard to believe anyone like that exists, but, yes, he is. And way more competitive, too. Anyway, it doesn't matter. It works in our favor and that's what counts."

"So, does that mean you're excited about this move?"

"Wilson, do you know me at all? When was the last time change made me happy, excited or any other positive emotion?"

"But, you're okay with it, right?"

"Yeah. I needed to get away from Princeton Plainsboro and everything that's been happening there."

"I hope you don't think just running away will fix your issues."

"What issues?"

"_House_ . . . "

"I'm starting a new career and I'm finally able to be with the love of my life in every way I ever wanted. " House leered and wiggled his eyebrows in an attempt to make it appear like it was only about the sex, "And I'm able to get away from a place that literally drove me crazy and into a life of crime. Sounds like a winner to me."

"I still think it might be a good idea if you went into some kind of therapy, at least for a while."

"Well, Nolan's in New Jersey and we're going to be in Boston, so that won't happen."

"I thought you told Nolan he was quack."

"He is, but he's my quack."

"So, he's the only psychiatrist you trust?"

"That's right. And he's six hours away from where we'll be living. I'd go back to seeing him, but I can't."

"Well, that's interesting."

"What?" House asked warily. He knew Wilson well enough to know something was going on.

"Well, I found out that Nolan moved to Boston about two years ago."

"How?" House sputtered.

"Well, I contacted him when you went missing."

"Why would you do that?"

"I was desperate to find out what happened to you and after the police gave up, I thought he might know either where you were or how to figure it out."

"Well, that was stupid."

"It turned out to be unproductive. He couldn't come up with anything."

"He couldn't come up with anything you didn't already know about me, you mean."

"Yes, I guess so."

"No guessing involved Wilson. No one knows me as well as you do."

"True, but I'm not exactly detached. I thought that maybe my emotions were clouding my thinking processes and there was something there an outsider could see."

""I've taught you well."

"Because my work enabled me to know nothing of the rationality behind the scientific method, nor did it give me any insight into human emotions." Wilson replied sarcastically.

"Whatever," House dismissed. He hoped Wilson would drop the subject of shrinks in general, and Nolan in particular. No such luck.

"The point is, if we move here, Nolan will be close by," Wilson continued, picking up the conversation again. "Even closer than he was when we were in Princeton."

"Oh, goody."

"If he's the only psychiatrist you trust, you'll have him right here."

"And why do I have to go?" House did the best whiny-kid impression he could muster.

"Well, even assuming you dealt with everything that happened up until you went to Mayfield with Nolan the last time you were seeing him – which is probably not the case, given how messed up your childhood was – you still have a lot of stuff to deal with since then."

"No I don't."

"You mean because the doomed relationship with Cuddy, the fiasco of the break-up and the self-destructive behavior that followed, the sham marriage, the driving the car into the dining room, the escape and the insistence that you do the maximum time in prison and then sabotaging your own release were not completely dysfunctional?"

Well. House couldn't exactly argue with any of that, but he could deflect.

"Well, it's not like you're going to win "Most Well-Adjusted" at the next beauty pageant you enter, either, Wilson."

"Even if I look fabulous in my evening gown?" Wilson asked flatly.

House grunted in reluctant amusement. "You're just as screwed up as I am Wilson. You've got the failed marriages, the deaths of the patients you were dumb enough to care about, giving away body parts to Self-Important Jerks and your cancer. And to top it all off, you decided to get involved with me."

"Clearly, I should check into the nearest psychiatric facility immediately."

"You're more functional than I was, at least on the surface, so they wouldn't take you. But that doesn't mean you're not in serious need of help, Jimmy."

"I agree."

House was taken aback by the lack of protest. "What? You aren't going to argue with me about this? Insist with everything in you that you're 'normal'?"

"As a wise but otherwise seriously dysfunctional and incredibly sexy man once told me, 'Normal's overrated.' "

"That's it?"

"Well, trying to be 'normal' got me three failed marriages and cancer from the stress of twenty years of pretending that the person I love more than anything else in the world was 'just a friend.' Screw normal. I'm forty-four, I almost died, and I deserve to be as deliriously happy with my whack job of a boyfriend as I possibly can be. If I could, I'd have hot, naked, sweaty anal with him in the biggest display window at Macy's in the middle of the Thanksgiving Day Parade and hope every bigoted fundie viewer's head exploded."

House smiled slightly. "You're in worse shape than I thought, Wilson. You definitely need help."

"I know." Wilson returned the smile briefly and then his face turned pensive again. "I'm going to have Nolan recommend someone, assuming we wind up living here."

"Thank God. Although that thing about the Parade was pretty hot."

"I thought it would appeal to your exhibitionist side."

"So, now I pretty much have to go back to Nolan, don't I?"

"Yep."

"I could skip it and you could go to him."

"And spend the entire time talking about your issues instead of mine? No, thank you."

"So, why did Nolan leave Jersey, anyway?"

"After his father died, he had no ties there."

"And why pick Boston and not Miami or Phoenix?"

"His wife is a professor at Tufts, I believe."

"Wife? When did he get married?"

"A year and a half ago, I think."

"Was this the woman he was seeing when I was at Mayfield?"

"No idea. Was she quite a bit younger than him?"

"She looked like it."

"Well, it certainly could be."

"Why?"

"My understanding is that the wedding was a little rushed."

" 'Rushed,' as in 'Shotgun'?"

"I heard the bride was very pregnant when she walked down the aisle. Of course, I'm sure she was bigger because it was twins."

"Twins? At his age? Oh my God. How is he planning to run after them?"

"He's lost a significant amount of weight."

"The new wife probably insisted. Poor bastard."

"Yeah, a young wife and a young family who want him around and healthy for a while. How terrible."

"You just want him around and working to support kids so I can keep going to him."

"Sounds like a win-win."

House rolled his eyes, but he knew he'd lost this round. And maybe it wasn't such a terrible idea that he go back to Nolan. At least he could skip talking about the stuff Nolan already knew, and that would save time, not to mention the pain of re-living all that crap again.

Thankfully, they spent most of the rest of the ride in comfortable silence.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

They arrived at the hotel in Boston late Monday afternoon. The hotel itself was outrageously expensive considering how basic it was (this was Boston, after all), but it had parking and was close to the T, so that both House and Wilson could avoid driving and the almost inevitable damage to Wilson's car that would have resulted from being on the road with Boston drivers.

They took the T to Chinatown and indulged in Dim Sum. Wilson couldn't manage the tripe, but he knew his stomach was returning to normal when he partook of the jellyfish salad and the chicken feet. All the dumplings were superb, and the century egg and congee was perfect for a chilly night.

They had the Yinpu Black Rice, but kept it to a minimum. Even with the jobs being pretty certain, they still didn't want to go the interviews with their breath smelling like stale beer. They had enough room after pulling appetizer after appetizer off the rolling carts for mango pudding.

They had just made it inside their hotel room when House began tugging at Wilson's clothes.

"House, we should get some rest."

"And think how well we'll sleep after some nookie," House responded. He had the top half of Wilson naked and was now unfastening Wilson's belt. Once the pants were unbuttoned, they dropped off. House pushed the boxers down and yanked on Wilson, forcing him to step out of everything that had fallen on the floor.

The way House was looking at him – like a Doberman eyeing a pork chop – made Wilson tingle all over. As usual, he was ready to indulge his desires, but not before striping House down to his birthday suit as well.

They were kissing frantically when they fell on the bed, tongues battling back and forth in each of their mouths. They broke for oxygen, but didn't stop kissing, just moved to each other's necks and shoulders. Wilson found the tender spot on the left just below House's ear and sucked, licked and nipped, making House moan as he licked, sucked and nibbled in the hollows of Wilson's collarbone. Wilson moaned in reply.

Both had become excited pretty quickly, as usual. Wilson had a fleeting thought that in the eight months they'd been together, except during the worst of the chemo, he'd never failed to either want House nor did his body fail to respond to him.

This had never happened before. Any relationship he'd had that lasted this long had seen a waning of his desire somewhere around the six month-mark. It was a marvel to Wilson, for all of a couple of seconds because the other thing he'd been trying to do, and he'd been having some success at it, was to shut down the thinking part of his brain and his constant assessment of his own performance and simply go with the feelings and sensations.

Wilson wasn't exactly sure how, but House made that easy. Maybe it was House's intensity – like everything else House did, when he was into it, there was nothing else. Maybe it was the genuine love Wilson felt for House. Wilson had to admit to himself that he loved House with an ardor he'd never felt for anyone else.

Maybe it was because they knew each other so well and were so comfortable with each other, Wilson didn't worry that House would find something he did strange or kinky. Well, that wasn't entirely true. But, Wilson also knew that after some mocking, it would pass and House would certainly tolerate it, if not embrace it.

Embrace it. That was it. House loved him. Deeply, completely and without reservation. And anything they did was in the context of that love. It was pure acceptance and also a huge turn on.

"Wilson, bottom or top?" House asked huskily.

"Bottom." Wilson replied, his voice rough as well. Wilson loved being inside House, but the way House made love to him, yes, House _made love to him_, well, that was simply incredible.

House took a couple of minutes to prep Wilson, which, despite its speed, was also tender. And then House was inside him.

And there was nothing else. Just his body enveloping House, and House finding the spot that made Wilson know ecstasy. House's hand was stroking him in the same rhythm he was using as he moved in and out of Wilson, but that was almost beside the point.

Wilson had another fleeting thought that he could probably cum just from what House was doing inside and whatever friction he would receive from his cock being trapped between their moving bodies. After that, it was all moaning and grunting and then the flash he always saw before his eyes as he reached bliss.

House collapsed next to him and each pulled the other towards him as they descended back to earth.

Wilson closed his eyes as he came down from the orgasm. His breathing was slowing as he drifted toward slumber. House must have thought he was already asleep because Wilson felt House caress his face. The fingers were calloused, but the touch was as light as a feather.

"Sweet Jimmy." House whispered as his thumb slipped over Wilson's lips, "I do love you so."

It was a genuine surprise to hear those words from House. That the man the world considered a tough, cruel bastard was capable of feeling such tenderness was truly remarkable. Hell, it was epic. Wilson felt warmth spreading through him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

The stroking stopped and House placed a soft kiss directly on the scar on Wilson's chest and pulled Wilson even closer, pulling his head on House's shoulder. Within a matter of moments, House's breathing evened out in sleep. Wilson soon followed, feeling, for the first time in his life, utterly and completely loved.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHHWHWHWHWHW

The alarm went off early. Wilson needed time for, as House sneeringly dubbed it, "his beauty routine," and House needed time to get his leg going.

Wilson showered first as House sat up, took a couple of pills and walked carefully around the room, getting the stiffness out of his leg.

Wilson got ready in the bathroom, while House soaked in the tub. House smiled to himself as he noticed Wilson checking him out under the water. Not that House wasn't enjoying the view of a naked Wilson shaving, brushing his teeth and blow drying his hair.

When House finished his shower and trimmed his beard, he came out to find Wilson already dressed and fussing with his tie. It was disappointing, but they really didn't have time for anything, anyway.

House dressed as quickly as he could, in a suit no less, and asked Wilson to help him with his tie.

Wilson made the appropriate noises of disapproval. "A grown man past fifty, a professional who's had a prestigious job, and he can't even tie his own tie?"

"Of course I _can_," House protested. "It's just more fun to make you do it and watch you get aggravated."

"Especially on a day when I'm already stressed out," Wilson groused.

"And even more so since I told you it's not necessary," House noted with a smirk.

Wilson realized this was House getting Wilson distracted by trying to divert his nerves into annoyance. Well, it had worked, and, more to the point, it made things feel familiar and routine. What wasn't routine, or at least Wilson wouldn't admit to himself before the last eight months, was the surge of affection this brought to Wilson. After the tie was arranged to his satisfaction, he gave House a small peck on the lips.

"Don't start anything we don't have time to finish," House growled.

"Let's go see if we can find some breakfast," Wilson responded as he headed toward the door of the hotel room.

They found a food cart on the sidewalk near the T stop and grabbed a couple of breakfast sandwiches. Another quick kiss goodbye and they went in opposite directions – Wilson heading inbound to the city and House heading outbound to Cambridge.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

Wilson arrived at the hospital and found the office where his interviews were to begin ten minutes ahead of time, which was exactly how he planned it – early enough to look like he was eager to begin and to respect the time of his interviewers, but not too early to allow his nerves to take over or to make anyone else feel uncomfortable with his presence.

A person he assumed was the administrative assistant asked if he would like coffee or tea. Wilson politely refused, aware that he had done so with his most charming smile. Wilson wanted to kick himself the moment afterward. If he really had a lock on this job as House had maintained, he had to tone it down. The last thing he wanted was to look like he was trying too hard.

At 9:05, a short, plump, middle-aged woman with medium brown hair and hazel eyes came into the waiting room, entering from behind the door of the adjacent office.

"I'm Doctor Amanda Nielsen," she introduced herself, holding out a stiff forearm with a hand at the end dangling downward toward the floor. Wilson stood up and grasped the offered appendage, attempting to achieve precisely the right amount of pressure in his grip.

"Doctor James Wilson," he responded, smiling, he hoped, just not too much.

"Come in," she gestured, opening the door to the room she just left and indicating with the hand not on the doorknob he should enter first.

Luckily, there was only one other chair besides the one behind the desk, so Wilson didn't have to agonize over which piece of furniture to pick to create the perfect impression with his seating choice. He sat down and tried to look expectant as Doctor Nielsen took her own chair facing him, with the desk in-between.

"So, how was your flight?" She asked. She seemed to be looking for something – no doubt her file for the interview. Judging from the chaos on her desk, it was going to take a while. Wilson resigned himself to some pseudo-pleasant small talk.

"Um, we didn't fly," Wilson responded. "We drove."

"Isn't it a long trip?"

"If you don't hit traffic or stop, it's only about five hours."

"Since you mentioned those things, I'm guessing you had to stop. Maybe more than once?"

"Yes. We took our time," Wilson answered vaguely. He really didn't want to get into House needing to stretch his crippled leg or the fact that he needed to use the restroom so much.

"You're lucky your wife is so patient," Amanda noted. "Before we had kids, the only way I could get my husband to stop was to threaten to pee on his car mats."

Wilson smiled slightly as he remembered House threatening to do just that on their road trip to John's funeral. Now that he knew more about House's childhood, the funeral itself wasn't his happiest memory, but he had enjoyed the road trip immensely, despite all his protests to the contrary.

"Something funny?" Amanda asked, noting Wilson's smile.

"Just remembering another road trip," Wilson answered.

"So, you and your wife prefer traveling by car?"

On the one hand, Wilson did not want to get into his domestic situation. On the other hand, we didn't want to lie. "I'm not married."

"I'm sorry," Amanda said, hastily moving more papers around on her desk. "I thought I saw somewhere in your file, if I can ever locate it, that you were married."

"I was, but not now," Wilson conceded. And, as much as he wanted this job, there was no way he was going to get into his three failed marriages, so he remained silent.

"So, your significant other was pretty patient then?" Amanda corrected herself.

Wilson pondered for a split second. He very easily could have answered this in a gender-neutral way and not admitted to anything. But, what had he told House just yesterday? He was tired of pretending he was someone else. He loved who he loved, and if that was a problem for anyone, too damn bad. He didn't want any job that much to hide his relationship or an important part of his identity.

"Yes, he was," Wilson stated softly. He saw the information register.

"And what does he do?" Amanda asked. Wilson was impressed with her ability to recover so quickly. Well, this was Massachusetts, not Alabama.

"He's starting a new career in research." Wilson stated. "We hope at MIT."

"What did he do before?"

"He was a doctor."

"What specialty?"

"He was board certified in nephrology and infectious diseases but he was a diagnostician."

"And he worked with you at Princeton-Plainsboro?"

"Yes."

"Gregory House?" Amanda sounded both surprised and slightly in awe. "Your significant other is _The_ Gregory House?"

"I'm not sure how much he'd like the definite article, but yes."

"Wow. If you don't mind my asking, what made him decide to leave medicine?"

Wilson hesitated before he answered the question. Now that Wilson was looking for a fresh start in a new job, he had been thinking about what he liked and didn't like about his old one. Princeton Plainsboro had been good in a lot of ways, but there were parts of it that were simply, well, for want of a better word, crazy. Why?

Wilson had ruminated about this in the last few months when the only other thing he had to occupy his mind was feeling crappy from chemo. He concluded one of the reasons the place of employment he was currently on leave from was so nuts was the lack of personal boundaries.

It was why House felt like he could harass Cuddy about her body and stalk her and why Cuddy had no qualms about stealing his cane or using a tripwire on him. And also probably why she did nothing when Lucas "pranked" them, even though, looking back, it was some seriously illegal stuff - breaking and entering, personal property destruction and even physical assault.

Not that House and Wilson hadn't done some outrageous things to each other, but it was within the context of their friendship because they were peers, and most of it had taken place outside the hospital itself.

In any case, if they had had at least some sense of what was workplace appropriate and what wasn't, a lot of the more harmful things wouldn't have happened. So, Wilson answered her question rather carefully.

"I don't mind you're asking, but I hope you don't mind my allowing him to answer that, not me," Wilson responded. It was friendly, but vague.

"Sure. How about you?" Amanda moved on. "Why do you want to change specialties?"

Wilson didn't want to answer for House, but he was more than willing to be honest about himself, again within appropriate boundaries. "I guess the short answer is burnout."

"From the cancer?"

"More from realizing that I couldn't go on with what I was doing after I got the treatment."

"I'm not following."

"Cancer has a tendency to create a laser beam focus in your mind."

"I imagine it would."

"And I don't have to imagine – I can say unequivocally from personal experience. And that focus gets trained on the significant things in your life – why are you doing what you are doing, what you are getting out of it, how is it making you unhappy . . ."

"And Oncology made you unhappy?"

"Actually I had a tremendous sense of accomplishment every time a patient had a remission. The problem being that there weren't enough remissions."

"It's a tough specialty if you can't handle loss."

"I can handle loss. Just not so much of it. And not so much when you've faced your own mortality from the very same disease."

"That's understandable. But, I don't want you to think everything here is a bed of roses. We do lose patients."

"From CF?"

"Actually with the advances that have been made there, most patients live until at least their twenties."

"And by that time they've moved out of the Pediatric area."

"In Britain, I believe the euphemism is "off the service."

"So, where do the deaths come from?" Wilson expressed his puzzlement. "I know asthma is potentially very serious, but it's very rarely fatal."

"Untreated asthma is," Amanda noted his mild shock. "You have to remember, James, that this isn't a small, affluent college town like Princeton where the least educated people have undergraduate degrees. This is a large city, with ghettoes and some chronic blue-collar underemployment."

"And they don't get their kids treatment?"

"They can't afford private physicians."

"Don't you have clinics here in Boston?"

"Yes, but not enough, and the parents will lose their jobs if they spend half a day waiting at a clinic."

"No clinics are open past the workday?"

"Ours is. Which reminds me, we rotate the duty amongst the physicians on staff. The commitment is two nights a month."

Wilson thought by the time they moved and he got set up in the job, his strength would be pretty much back to normal, so he should be able to physically handle a couple of long days. And he didn't think House would object to his working two nights a month, either, especially if Wilson didn't have to stay late doing all the paperwork he had to do when he was a department head at Princeton Plainsboro. "Not a problem."

"Good. So, do you have any questions?"

Wilson, ever prepared, pulled out his list. He started at the top.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

House found himself standing in a large warehouse-like space. There was metal framing in the ceiling and along the walls, and bales of electrical wire and cable everywhere. He was pretending to look interested while the Department Head and a lab designer discussed what was going to be his new lab.

House wasn't sure how long he could feign attentiveness. This was painfully boring for him. When he was diagnosing patients, he'd rarely, if ever, conducted any testing himself. He cared about the results, not the process, other than knowing it was done correctly.

And how the lab was configured, well, that was just beyond anything he was capable of having any interest in whatsoever. Besides, he'd just sat through a computer-generated three-dimensional presentation in the office that went into nauseating levels of detail for forty-five interminable minutes.

Honestly, the only way he'd gotten through the morning was to amuse himself trying to figure out precisely where in Britain his new boss was originally from. He was grateful it wasn't some foppish "proper British" accent from a place like Cambridge. God, he hated those.

For some unknown reason, this made his mind trip, to all places, of the times Stacy was into watching all those period British dramas. After Anthony Hopkins won the Oscar for Silence of the Lambs, in House's mind a truly awesome movie, the actor had decided to go off and do all these awful costume dramas that were painful to watch.

But, Stacy wanted to see them, so House gritted his teeth and made it through. His favorite wound up being Remains of the Day. The story itself was horrible – some rich pro-Nazi English dolt with a butler who couldn't kiss his ass often enough, not to mention that woman in the lead – she was practically barking! But, there was one actress in a bit part as a member of the household staff who was pretty hot.

What was even hotter was House's reward for getting through the movie – Stacy in a French maid's costume. He still smiled inwardly when he remembered everything they'd done to each other with that feather duster. He began to wonder if there was either a sex shop or a cleaning supply store close to one of the T stops on the way back into Boston.

"I said we're done here, Doctor House," said the Department Head, Davies - who had requested that House call him Trevor, even as House knew it would never happen – as he pulled House out of his reverie. "Unless you have any questions."

"Um, no, I don't," House didn't quite stammer, but his response wasn't exactly assured, either.

"Drifted off there for a second?" Davies inquired with a smirk.

"Um, yes," House acknowledged.

"Hot piece of ass waiting for you back at the hotel, eh?" There was a slight leer in Davies' voice. "Not exactly politically correct, but if your reputation is at all accurate, I doubt you'll mind."

"I don't mind," House admitted with a tiny smile.

"And I was right about the other as well, yes?" Davies's grin was slightly bigger now.

House gave a quick nod with a smirk.

"She can take time out mid-week to travel with you?" House's soon-to-be-boss questioned.

House hesitated. Well, he'd certainly find out how Davies would deal with House being in a male-male relationship. It wasn't like that was going change, so it was better to know now. "He's on a job interview at Mass General."

"Your former profession?" Davies asked. House thought he saw a slight flinch, but it could have just been from surprise. The content of the question certainly wasn't hostile, nor was the tone.

"He's changing specialties, but he's staying a doctor, yes."

"From what to what?" Davies inquired.

"Oncology to pediatric pulmonology." House replied.

"Fewer depressing outcomes, I suppose," Davies ventured.

House nodded. He wasn't about to get into Wilson's cancer and its motivating effect on Wilson's career change. Wilson could tell him at the next faculty party. If House ever got roped into going to one, that is.

Davies drove House to the train station. Since everyone else was heading outbound at this time of day, the train was blessedly empty. House was able to get a seat and avoid getting his leg jostled too much as it slowly filled up.

The good news was that House didn't need to go back and continue his interview the next day. The bad news was that he had been handed a stack of resumes to review for the staff he was going to hire for the lab.

God, he hated the whole idea of this. What people put on resumes had nothing to do with their abilities, especially these resumes, which were little more than transcripts of grades and lists of labs they had worked in. One would hope a good program or a lab working on interesting research would produce a decent candidate, but you could never tell. They might have actually learned something in a top-flight research setting, or they might have screwed up or learned nothing and left for that reason, too.

And there were so damn many of them. House wondered how his new employers would feel about the technique he used at his last mass hiring. House had enjoyed the apprentice-style game, thinking up challenges and meeting people like Ridiculously Old Fraud, but he had to admit the ultimate results were less than stellar – two dead and one dying candidate. And House going crazy from all that happened had been a spectacularly awful side effect.

So, he'd just have to slog through this. He wondered, since Wilson wouldn't have to be setting up his own department, if he could somehow get Wilson to do some of this. Maybe he could help him with the administrative hiring at least – Wilson had always been good at all that paper-pushing crap.

Of course, then House would owe Wilson. But, now that they were in a relationship, that could translate into Wilson wanting something physical from House in exchange. That would definitely be a win-win.

House arrived at the hotel room at around four. Thankfully, he was neither exhausted nor was he in too much pain. He took a single pill just to make sure the pain stayed down as much as possible, and started in on the resumes.

Wilson arrived back at the hotel room at six. After his interview with Doctor Nielsen, she had taken him around to meet all the doctors in the department and then on rounds. He'd spent another chunk of the afternoon in the exam rooms, tailing the doctor who was on duty there. As a result, he'd walked more than he had in months.

He still had to meet the other doctors for more in-depth interviews tomorrow, but that at least would be sitting down. And that was essential because Wilson had experienced neuropathy in his feet since the chemo. It was gradually improving, but a day like the one he'd had, with all the walking and standing, was beyond rough.

It didn't help that he'd been vain and worn dress shoes with hard soles. House had warned him, of course, and he knew he'd never hear the end of it, but right now all we wanted to do was sit down and get his shoes off.

When he entered the hotel room, House was sitting up on the bed with his back propped up against the headboard, reading a file. There were three additional stacks of files on the floor – a large one, and two smaller ones. House looked up at Wilson over his reading glasses, and, as sexy as that was, Wilson couldn't feel even a small reaction in his nether regions.

"I need to pee," Wilson grunted as he headed toward the bathroom. He knew once he sat down, he wouldn't be getting up again anytime soon, and he wanted to take care of business.

"Nice to see you, too," House responded sarcastically, but it was not a terribly biting retort. Either House didn't notice how badly Wilson was walking – highly unlikely given House's super-human powers of observation – or House was keeping his snark in reserve. Wilson prepared himself for a nasty lecture later.

By the time he got back into the room, his feet were screaming. He dropped to the bed, and pushed back toward the headboard, also propping himself against it. He was taking deep breaths. He badly needed to get his shoes off, but how he was going to accomplish that was anyone's guess.

He shut his eyes against the pain and waited for it to subside, even a little.

A moment later, he felt some gentle tugging at his shoes. He opened his eyes to see House sitting next to him on the bed, untying the laces, making them as loose as possible. Once that was accomplished, he took Wilson's foot and with the utmost care, slowly removed the shoe. He then slid the sock down Wilson's ankle, moved it slowly around his heel and then gently off his foot. He repeated the process with the other foot. It had been painful, but not excruciating, and definitely kinder than what Wilson would have been able to do himself.

Wilson wondered if his feet visibly throbbed. This thought was replaced by curiosity as House got up from the bed and went to his suitcase.

He returned with a tube, two plastic bags and a pair of surgical gloves.

"House . . . " Wilson hesitated. "I can't ask you to do this . . . "

"It's no big deal, Wilson," House responded. "And if we don't, you won't be able to walk tomorrow. And I can't carry you. Cripple, you know."

Wilson smiled slightly in spite of himself, as House put the gloves on. He squeezed a portion of salve from the tube and began rubbing it with the utmost care on to Wilson's foot.

The initial stinging of the capsaicin always made him gasp, but then the heat took over, and the numbing feeling began. House lingered beyond the application, working the cramped muscles in Wilson's foot. Sadly, House knew all too well what happened to the muscles that were located near nerves that were in serious pain.

Once he was finished with the massage, he placed one of the plastic bags over Wilson's foot. It was already starting to feel better.

House proceeded on to the other foot, lavishing it with the same loving treatment.

When he was finished, he put the gloves in another plastic bag, disposed of it and put the tube back in his luggage.

He returned to the bed to find Wilson lying there with his eyes closed. He noticed Wilson's face had relaxed.

House was about to launch into a lengthy "I told you so," when he remembered he always hated when Wilson did that. So, instead, he climbed on to the bed, slid his arms around Wilson's torso, pulled Wilson toward him and kissed him gently on the lips.

"What, no lecture?" Wilson asked as he settled into House's arms.

"You were in enough pain that I hope you learned your lesson." House responded. "Get some cool-looking sneakers and get on with your life."

"Sneakers don't work with dress pants."

"And what a tragedy it would be to have to pitch those. Not. You look good in jeans, Wilson. You have a very nice ass."

"Every man that wants to get into another man's pants says that."

"Yes, but in your case, it happens to be true."

"Really? You think so?"

"Okay, now I'm sorry I said anything. Stop being a girl."

"Then stop treating me like a piece of meat, existing only for your personal pleasure," Wilson stated dryly. "I just don't think jeans are appropriate for work as a professional."

"Seriously? The way your patients used to puke all over you, you were in scrubs at least half the time, anyway."

"No more patients on chemo. That won't happen now."

"Are you kidding? With all the kids you'll be dealing with, I'd bet on it. One of the many reasons clinic duty was so charming."

"That reminds me, I'll have clinic duty two nights a month."

"Oh, man. I'm not going to get to sleep with you two nights a month?"

"It's from four to eleven. I'll be home to sleep with you, although I'm not sure how much energy I'll have left for sex."

"Sex?" House appeared to be puzzled. "Oh, right."

"You weren't using the common euphemism of sleeping with someone to mean having sex?" Wilson asked in an amused voice.

"Forget it." House sounded irritated, which made Wilson even more interested.

"Well, if you didn't mean sex . . . " Wilson puzzled aloud. "Oh my God, you meant actually sleeping with me. Does that include _cuddling_ with me, too?"

"Shut up, Wilson," House's face had a scowl and his cheeks were turning pink.

Wilson saw an opportunity for some serious mocking. But, he hesitated. Hadn't House just done something truly caring for him? Besides, if he was at all honest with himself, he loved the cuddling, too. And if he mocked House for it, House might stop doing it. And Wilson didn't want that to happen. Ever.

Wilson changed back to the original topic. "I still don't know what I'm going to do about my work wardrobe. Jeans are just so, so . . . _casual_."

"Do you have any idea how much some jeans cost? More than your suits do. Including the hideous ties."

"Still . . . "

"Just wear a button-down, a tie and a sport coat. Aren't you going to be wearing a lab coat, anyway? Close enough."

"Well, maybe I could get away with some cords . . . "

"Just make sure they aren't the cheap kind. You don't want to announce your arrival everywhere you walk."

"Funny, my experience is that people are much less hostile when you don't sneak up and scare them to death."

"And since when have I ever cared about hostility?"

"True. But for some reason I don't think the 'frightening the children' persona is the best idea in a pediatric specialty."

"You really are no fun at all, you know that?"

"I _am_ fun," Wilson insisted. He pressed his erection against House's thigh.

"That's not fun, that's horny."

"They're hardly mutually exclusive."

"I know," House agreed as leaned over to kiss Wilson's lips. It was slow and tender and it made Wilson ache with need.

"Greg," he spoke softly, "I want you, but I'm not sure how, um, mobile, I am right now."

"I know the feeling," House responded gently. "My leg isn't too bad, do you mind if I take a ride?"

Wilson's grin told him everything he needed to know.

It took some doing for Wilson to get naked, but, considering the logistics - getting his pants and boxers off without disturbing the plastic bags on his feet - it happened fairly quickly.

House was a lot faster. Once they were both naked, they found themselves lying on the bed facing each other. House leaned in to kiss Wilson tentatively, wondering if, despite his erection, Wilson was still in too much pain to do anything. He got his answer when Wilson pulled House closer and attacked his lips, forcing his tongue into House's mouth. House moaned in pleasure as he pushed back into Wilson's mouth.

As the kissing intensified, they began to rub their cocks against each other. The friction was enough for both of them to have reasonable hard-ons after a few minutes. House pulled back and then carefully moved to straddle Wilson. He picked up the lube that was on the nightstand and was surprised when Wilson took it from him.

Wilson put some on his finger and reached though House's legs and began to gently work open his entrance. House's eyes were hooded with lust and he moaned even more deeply than had before.

"I need you, Jimmy," House's voice was soft, yet urgent. He pointed Wilson's cock toward his entrance and gradually lowered himself on to Wilson.

Wilson had been bottoming a lot recently, and he had almost forgotten how good it felt to be inside House. He was surrounded by the person he loved most in the world, and was able to give him pleasure, and what else was there, except his own pleasure, which was intense.

House slid up and down on Wilson's increasingly stiff pole. Wilson felt his penis hitting House's prostate and saw the bliss on House's face.

Wilson reached for House's cock, stroking and twisting and squeezing. The finger on his other hand slipped inside House's foreskin and began stroking back and forth on the slit. Wilson knew he was doing it right when House cried out in ecstasy.

This was more than enough to make Wilson come inside House. In the next moment, he felt House explode all over his abdomen and chest. My God, did anything, could anything, feel as good as this?

House collapsed on top of Wilson with a final groan as Wilson slipped out of him. Wilson pulled him as close as he possibly could. They drifted in bliss.

Their drift toward sleep was stopped by a loud rumbling in House's belly.

"What did you have for lunch?" Wilson inquired with a small smile.

"Reuben from a local deli. They gave me a pickle even after I told them I didn't want it."

"The sandwich was good otherwise, though?"

"Yes."

"We did Greek takeout. I had a salad and some Moussaka."

"You must be full."

"Not really. I worked it off running around all afternoon," Wilson gestured toward his feet.

"Yeah. And no walking to a restaurant, either."

"We could take the T."

"And how would you get to the stop here? And what if there were no seats? And you'd have to walk once we got off on the other end, too."

"You have this all figured out, don't you?

"Years spent assessing how far you can walk without inducing agony will give you that ability."

Wilson said nothing. He simply grabbed House's hand and kissed the back of it.

"So, what do we do for dinner?" Wilson asked as he rested their hands on his chest, fingers laced together.

"In the midst of reading some painfully boring resumes, I took the liberty of googling some pizza places. There's one near here that gets four stars and delivers."

"What toppings?"

"Meat, meat and meat."

"I'll name the coronary Guido."

"Give me your cell phone."

"What's wrong with yours?"

"My plan doesn't distinguish between data and voice."

"And?"

"I have to limit my usage for the rest of the month. I got kind of carried away playing 'Call of Duty: Nazi Zombies.' "

"Why I ever thought you made it out of pre-pubescence escapes me. What's the number?"

House held the tablet so Wilson could see the number and the menu as he dialed. He ordered a pizza and an antipasto. Of course he gave them _his_ credit card number.

"Think you can handle the two-dollar tip for the delivery guy?" Wilson questioned sarcastically as he ended the call.

House grunted in agreement. "What's with the salad?"

"God forbid you let one morsel of plant life pass your lips," Wilson chided. "Look at the bright side. It's got cheese and meat, too.

House got up, went to the bathroom and returned with a wash cloth. He carefully cleaned Wilson's cock and dropped the washcloth on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Wilson questioned.

"Speaking of lips and meat . . . " House turned on the bed, moving himself so his head was very near Wilson's manhood. He pulled it toward him gently and surrounded it with his mouth.

"I'm not sure I'm up for another round just yet," Wilson hissed as he felt House's tongue swirling around him.

House paused and looked up. "Am I hurting you?"

"Um, no," Wilson admitted. House's mouth was very soft, and very, um, stimulating.

"Good. Gotta amuse ourselves until the delivery guy gets here, right?" House asked as he returned to his ministrations.

Wilson was about to protest that House should be reading whatever paperwork he'd been given and that he should be preparing for his interviews tomorrow, but House's mouth was doing some amazing things to his cock. It just felt so damn good. And Wilson's mouth also happened to be very near House's cock, which, Wilson observed, was beginning to stiffen.

Wilson smiled slightly as he gently pulled House's member toward him. He used his other hand to slide back the foreskin and began licking the now exposed tip.

"Jimmy," House moaned around Wilson's cock as he continued to lick and suck. He was losing his concentration, so he decided the easiest way to keep his focus was to do exactly what Wilson was doing – licking the slit. Wilson moaned in response to the new activity.

After several exquisite moments, Wilson decided to change things and took House into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around House's cock, enjoying the grunts of pleasure the activity solicited.

Not to be outdone, House returned to what he had been originally doing, continuing to mirror whatever Wilson was doing.

It didn't take long for both of them to be at the point of no return. They exploded down each other's throats, swallowing everything they could and licking up the rest.

House moved back up the bed, and reached for Wilson again. He gave him a hug and a soft kiss and then turned to get up carefully.

"Where are you going?" Wilson asked as he lay on his side facing House, still happily floating from both their encounters.

"I have to put some clothes on and grab some money to go to the lobby and get the food."

"Is your leg up for that?"

"Don't worry, Wilson. It's fine. Lots of endorphins."

"You're sure?"

"I've lived with my leg for a long time. I know when and even how it's going to hurt. Besides, you can't exactly hobble to the lobby with plastic bags on your feet, can you?"

"I can take them off."

"The treatment isn't done yet. And you should stay off your feet unless it's absolutely necessary for you to walk. And by that I mean I wish I'd brought a plastic urinal."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "But whoever gets the pizza has to sign the receipt for the credit card in my name – "

"You honestly think I can't make a reasonable facsimile of your signature by now?"

Wilson was silent as House dug into the pocket of the jeans he just put on, looking for some cash to pay the tip.

"I'm going to go to down there now. The delivery guy should be here soon." What was left unsaid, of course, was that House couldn't exactly run to the lobby when the food arrived, so he had to make his way down slowly and wait.

House propped the door ajar with the locking bolt as he went out. It was again left unsaid that when House returned couldn't hold the pizza box and the salad and use the card key to unlock the door while leaning on his cane.

After House was gone, Wilson rolled over on his back with a huff. He was seriously irritated, and he didn't know why. House had been irritating, of course, but certainly no more than he usually was. In fact, he'd had some moments of thoughtfulness. Well, even more than moments. And even more than thoughtfulness.

So, why was Wilson so, so, _cranky_?

He thought about it as he waited and he could only come to one conclusion. He hated begin dependent upon someone else. He was a doctor and he was used to helping other people, not needing it himself.

As Wilson continued to think about it, he realized that could be true for House, too. Maybe House had become a doctor not just to solve puzzles, but to feel the power, and, yes, the pride in being able to help others. No, House didn't do it so people would be grateful. In fact, he seemed to hate gratitude, or, at least, he eschewed displays of it.

But it was certainly more empowering to be the one helping than to be the one who was helped.

Wilson suddenly felt very uncomfortable. All those years he was annoyed at House for not accepting his assistance now seemed foolish to him. House was the doctor, the one who helped people. He didn't want to see himself as the one who was sick – crippled, addicted, mentally ill. Hell, he was even grouchy when he got a cold.

And now Wilson understood why. And not just in a detached way, but because of his own experience. Another thing about his behavior toward House that he regretted. He couldn't change any of it now; he'd just have to be aware of it and stop doing it as best he could.

As he finished his thought, House pushed in through the door. He put the pizza and salad on the desk, moved the lock bar and let the door close. He had a strange look on his face as he eyed Wilson.

Wilson pushed himself up and sat against the headboard again. "What are you staring at?"

"Seriously?" House questioned. "I come back to my room to find a hot, naked man on my bed and you wonder what I'm looking at?"

"Yeah, a guy with baggies on his feet is just _so_ attractive," Wilson commented dryly.

"Well, I'll probably lay off the toe-sucking for tonight. Although I do like spicy food," House responded with a leer.

"How kinky," Wilson replied, his voice utterly devoid of any inflection.

"You want some of this rabbit food?" House handed the clear plastic container with the antipasto to Wilson.

"You eat some, too," Wilson insisted.

"Fine," House groused. They passed the salad and a single disposable fork back and forth as they munched on the greens, olives, gardiniera, meat and cheese.

They made short work of the pizza afterward. House threw away the empty items as Wilson removed the bags from his feet and wiped off the small amount of remaining cream with a towel House retrieved for him. That complete, he walked gingerly to the bathroom, luckily with minimal pain, brushed his teeth, flossed and used the toilet. After House did the same, they settled in bed to watch a little TV.

They watched one of those forensic shows and mocked the medicine. The evening news came on, and before long, Wilson was fast asleep next to House. House considered staying up to watch more TV, but he checked the guide and the guests on the late-night talk shows were boring. He turned off the TV and the light next to the bed. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness so he could see to perform his nightly ritual.

"I love you, Jimmy," House whispered, placing a soft kiss on Wilson's lips and then one on the scar on his chest. He settled in, pulling Wilson into his arms. He was asleep in a few minutes.

House spent most of the next day in the hotel, going through the files of potential candidates and hating every minute of it. At least he got the list down to a manageable number that he could interview, chosen mainly on the basis of their looks in the pictures they included, or something he found odd or intriguing in their background. He knew he wouldn't dislike the interviews with the same intensity as going through the files - a face-to-face or even a webcam gave him so much more of an opportunity to mess with someone.

Wilson, much to his chagrin, wound up wearing jeans and sneakers to his interviews. His feet simply gave him no choice. He explained his situation to Doctor Nielsen and she'd appeared not to have a problem with it. If anyone else did, they kept from expressing it, at least. Wilson suspected they'd been counseled by Nielsen not to say anything.

They stayed another night in Boston and returned home to Princeton the next day.

A/N: When I started this chapter in January, the Boston Marathon was months away. I hope my affection for this wonderful city came through, even with a little ribbing. Bostonians are both tough and self-aware, and I think they wouldn't want to be handled with kid gloves. I just know they will keep going, living their values of education and civility (except at Red Sox games, of course), I love you, Beantown! -anon


End file.
